The Owls Still Live
By Jane Tawel
October 24, 2022
And as yet once again, and then again,
I lie, restless and unsleeping, yet not unafraid
in a bed not of roses, and while sometimes of thorns,
still a bed that holds me
in the sticky web of memories,
but no longer of any hopes.
And I don’t know why,
but all I know is that neither medication nor meditation
are the answer,
because the answer is no longer relevant.
An answer is only possible in the short-run,
and an answer is only as good as the Test-Maker,
and mine has showed His hand,
and I won’t be fooled again.
I hear the omen-call outside my window.
And myths say now it won’t be long,
won’t be long.
And yet my humanity,
so deeply entrenched since I was a child,
still listens to like calling like.
And my heart longs to believe that
even when the night is darkest,
that Like will once more call to me
as like unto Himself.
The canticle goes on and on,
a duet between two unseen flights of fancy.
And I can’t believe it, but it’s true,
for hours I lie awake and listen, and
the one never gives up,
no matter how long the other pauses or hesitates.
No, He never stops sending signals
of love-calls to her,
and no matter how dark the night,
like answers Like.
I don’t know anything anymore,
neither sleeping nor awake,
but only this –
just outside my bedroom window —
the owls still live.
© Jane Tawel, 2022