Walking at Dusk
Setting a stopping place is folly.
This is all I know of destinations—
the fleet intent to go,
each step pulling my foot from earth
then planting it, firm again, until
I cannot meet the wind and there I rest.
Each night the sun sets closer to this road,
singeing the rim of time as it goes.
I let its flame consume my thoughts.
This is all I know of contemplation—
naming the colors would deny my eyes
and make no hedge against the dark.
To hear the great horned owl in the wood,
what can I do but drop my hands and listen,
wait until it mourns again—
wait—
and in the final silence,
let the mourning go.
Laura Bonazzoli lives in Rockport, Maine. Her poetry has appeared in Connecticut River Review, Reed Magazine, Viking Review, and other literary magazines, and in Balancing Act 2: An Anthology of Poetry by Fifty Maine Women from Littoral Books