Falling Like Feathers
Hushed, each Christmas we wait with breath-held hope
that the Barn Owl, pale queen of the night dark sky
will spread her strong broad wings to drop
whispering with a flutter and rustle of promise
white tales of long ago, once upon a time winters
stocking full of innocence and good cheer.
Thick pure blanket – soft, ermine, deep
lightly kissed by a brief sparkle of dawn sunlight
gift-wrapping the day-to-come in feathered peace
for us to unwrap in wanting anticipation
to tell stories of as we grow on.
Maybe it will be this year?