After Epiphany



after epiphanyStill crossing over

from the old year,

I hear owls lamenting in the pines.

Their songs become songs of experience

I half forgotten but need to re-own, memories

embered in a sky of morning stars.


I know some things

cannot be swept out, dispersed by the wind

along the mountain’s threshold. They must remain,

seen in the different light of a new day

and year. And beyond the dirge of night birds

in the desert trees, branches having shed

their tarnished needles while keeping pine

cones that hang like shuttered lamps with no flame —


there is another bird

circling the courtyard. A California gull

carrying on his grey wings,

the spark of salt, the clean stir

of breath and water.

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