Old Owl

Old owl am I, sat in the steeple,

roosted in the belfry, oblivious to the bells

that pull and hope to rouse me

from decades of deafness.

I leave the doves below to roost,

doe eyed, cathedraled love,

and the ministered crows,

all knowing in black gowns,

endowed with cynical wisdom,

blessed all the same and singing

from their coarse hymnals.

Near the spire I sleep fitfully

and all alone.

Young one, I saw you looking up,

but do not do so with love.