A poem in the midst of insomnia
Since Then Outside the high windows of what was once our kitchen—before that, a weaver’s room—now a study— the breeze-bent lilacs continue to wave and sway; the weeping willow grazes buffalo grass; the copper roses blaze and extinguish, blaze and extinguish and blaze . . . but the peacock that appeared one afternoon strutting up and down the back garden’s brick path hasn’t been seen again, and was not— unlike the five tawny owlets perched…