May the screech owl’s wail fetch you
out of your hiding place, and the crows’
black ink find you and mark you.
May your left hand pluck and pluck
at the thorn in your breast and may
the right hand stay it. May your bones
drift far out to sea like a ship without
bearings. May you stride over the hills
just like you used to do, vowing never
to return; may the road make it true.
May the child’s call in the house
gone quiet, be nevermore for you.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.