Under the moon, I sat bereft,
we’d talked of life and love together,
you took my hand before you left,
gave to me a downy feather,
it once lay close to a beating heart,
I touched it softly, that snowy white,
flexible, but strong, sharp like a dart,
I wonder if the owl once loved–before he took flight—
does his mate cry for him now, in the loneliness of night?
This is for Day 9 of NaPoWriMo. The prompt was to write some sort of nine verse poem. This is my attempt at a Spenserian Stanza.