Christie B Cochrell
I feel the owls gathering with the dark,
and holy words beyond translation
coming from the synagogue next door
through a thicket of white oleander.
We are wrapped around in spells.
Shakespeare, the Metamorphosis,
and old French recipes
for chicken braised in serious red wine
and little glossy onions like
Grandmother Nora’s string of pearls.
All year I’ve been bitten by spiders
in the night, in tender, hidden places,
telling me to pay attention,
that we must weave our own lives,
be mindful of every day’s choices
of the warp and weft we give ourselves.
They add their arachnid wisdom
to the auguries of quail, junco,
golden-crowned sparrow, and
drawing the cats off from their prey.
We live a charmed life here.
Find your own joy, the Sufis say.
We warm our feet in lambswool,
read sonnets in three languages,
and know how blessed we are
against all possible reason.