Blessings

Five thirty AM, November eighth,
and my yard owl, a barred male, has
woken me with his high reverb
“who cooks for me”, or perhaps it was
the full moon, last night’s eclipse — looking
like an abandoned pumpkin hanging
on the black vine of sky — most likely
it was the fall back to Standard Time —
old body slow to adjust — sleep,
elusive once you’ve woken — maybe
that should be called resleep — while
the sparse silver forest on my arm is
roused by the cold emptiness of our
room — my wife visiting her siblings
minus one across the continent,
and I could kvetch about missing
her — a bit of me gone — together
forty years, it feels like the solid part
of my smile has faded these last few
days, but then I consider the sister-
in-law who passed one month ago,
and what a blessing it is to watch
the moon turn from silver to orange —
hear that owl, unfulfilled, but
still calling — feel the hair on my arm
stand up in the chill of our November
bedroom.

Gary D. Grossman
Blue Heron Review Fall 2023