Questions for the night
Where did the wishes fly, when did they go,
the longing for something that speaks deep and slow
in the whisper of oak leaves, the voice of the thrush,
that sinks with the sun in the late evening hush?
If I knew, would I follow the path where it leads,
though it wander through fire and where the heart bleeds,
though it end with the breath of a life at its close,
the pain of a dying, would that be what I chose?
I wish and I long and I watch in the night
for the stars of your eyes, their unquenchable light,
will I see them again, and the owl on the hill,
as he calls to the sky seems to tell me, I will.