The Veil is translucent. Owls eye complacently.
Do not fly. Not this day, night.
They blink gold discs. Ruffle feathers.
Talon branches tight, anchoring legends.
Mists under Sun, Moon.
Owls of lace, blood, warmth...waiting.
My father twined the Linden and Ash, though
He never knew...while Earth held him.
Blooded fighting hands, balancing the butterfly.
Teaching me. Softness, quiet, gentility.
Voice to shake mountains. Move them
Out of his weariness.
Yellow roses. His favorite.
Did he take one with him...
Or leave them all with me...
Owls call my name, today. Did you hear them?
Again, and again. I cannot answer the legend.
I want...
I need...
Tethers loosen. Drifting. Floating away from
The Shore. Freedom. Lightness.
My father's hand reaches through the Mist.
Pulls me back.
His other hand holds a yellow rose.
elysabeth faslund
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-yellow-rose/
