The Discovery

Phone I’m just trying to call,
As if if were there that easy,
As if poetry were owls,

As if baby poems were owls,
Tasked with their own egg-laying.
Sunny day in December,

Likely as not to produce
Something hideous, the task
Carefully summarized so,

Instead of monstrosity,
That the species of owl eggs
Tend to generate over

And over again in books
And images, we may make
For ourselves the kinds of grace

We would be happy to find,
Simple words in woods at night,
Or in the shade at evening

And recite, I found a small
Poem last night, and not be wrong
About the discovery.