Windhover Hall
Krista Canterbury Adams
Under the winter archway of oak branches
my crystal hands touch the closed eyelids
of Eos-Aurora, Light-bringer of Heaven.
This Owl’s Head dawn moves us in our quiet
wandering—step in at the iron
gate, letting our heat of fever twist
black pillars red & reduce us to only our
beating hearts; turning against the wind
in crook of sanctuary, of cobblestones & brick.
We know the stories, we invite much
lore, see further ahead to cracked, uneven sidewalks
dark with rain, the looming hotels, shops, restaurants
of slate & limestone appearing as giants against
the fated sky. See the grand & ancient stone
houses drowning in the glare of dawn,
shadowy gardens cut through with sharp points
of lights of the victory gods.
From just this place we can be
cut away, awash in the turning,
encircled in the curling of the morning snow.
