I lie on my equinox, split night
and day, stare the stars away,
retreat from my sun’s warmth,
shrivel from his kisses; fear
we’ll kill the owl, we’ve clipped
my peregrine wings, that I’m
naught but a carrion crow.
I fly the interstate highway,
eyes torn in dimming light,
whisper to myself, “take flight.”
But caged in an automotive,
with love my passenger, I
cannot roost nor swoop,
let alone, ascend, from barn
to branch to windy mountain.
Oh my sun, let me resurrect
my demons, darling. Night
must grow longer so that I
might slink under it, satisfy
myself in your pale moonlight.
Let me fall and winter over;
let me grow cold and dream
again; let all your blossoms,
fruits, fade, shrink, and fall;
let it all fall, bare in the night.
The owl will snatch the mice
that gather summer’s seeds.
Only among mountaintops
will the falcon recall how
high and far and fast it can
fly. This crow will still caw
beside your bedroom window:
“In every death, we find meat.”
My winter will again end
so we can find one another
as equals; my sun, the stars
must share the sky, if ever I
am to be a migratory bird.
Let me lie on my equinox,
split with you, day and night.
Wil Peregrine 