It is unbearable when
dark windows meet you at silent home,
and not even the tawny owl
notices its greeting.
Drawn curtains are their own fences;
he who lives inside a barricade,
surrounding it with furnishings and
empty sounds to disguise
will always be the last to notice
desolation, always the first to be apart
Outside, awake, the owl cooes
softly and wisely to his undisciplined
lurking in treeshadows, skeltering,
the wisdom of a forest nightfall.
For only owls know that
frames do not a portrait make.