Object poem

Owls

I like owls.

Not sure why.

I’m not overly infatuated

with real owls,

especially when one

ate my kitten.

Still, I admire these stately birds.

Mostly, I like decorative owls.

I have an elegant, brown ceramic owl

sitting atop my entertainment center.

It’s really a vase.

I set a tablet and pen by it.

When something good happens

I rip off a piece of paper,

write the blessing down,

and stick it in the owl.

The owl’s belly is full of good things,

just like all bellies should be.

Also, by this owl sits a little stuffed owl

wearing a graduation cap.

I bought it for my daughter

when she graduated from college.

Now, it cheers me on to finish my degree.

I have owls on my towels.

I have owls on a mug.

At a writers conference

they had gift packages you bid on.

I liked the one with the owl mug,

and it happened to be my birthday.

When the bids were about to close,

I saw that there was a name after mine.

I thought if God wants me to have it

for my birthday, He’ll have to give it for me.

I didn’t sign my name and walked out.

In the next class, my friend said,  

“I signed your name on that package you wanted

just before the bidding closed.”

So when I drink from my owl cup

I remember the day

God Himself wished me a Happy Birthday

with a little help from a friend.