Owl Calling In a Hollow Tree
An owl is calling from a hollow tree,
It speaks holy and hollow,
hollow and holy.
The speech of sprit
is any shell that can hold
the breath of a ghost.
The owl stops hooting
as if listening,
I know what it’s hearing,
I want to hear what it hears
but the holiness of the hollow
is beyond my overstuffed-ness.
Only those empty spaces in my lungs
can both speak and listen.
More often though
words arrive too late
to translate the holy,
only the hollow.
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