The Owl of this hour of wonder

–as old as the year–as cold as the frost—

–as weary as the trees as they let go their leaves–

Perched on the limbs of fading light, she has dozed through the days of December.

 

Imagine her now turning her head to gaze wide-eyed into this darkness.

With the patience that wisdom bestows

she makes a slow survey of the moonlit path to your door.

Grandmother of the forest, Guardian of the graves on the hill,

keep watch with us

as we light our candles

as we kindle our fires.