Norell

The Golden Sighted Brown Owl of the Stars

There are owls who deliver letters,
There are owls who read them,
And then, there is Norell.
She remembers the ones never written,
She knows what silence dares not tell.
She weaves them into her golden harp,
Then plucks the strings into hidden lores
That echo through library doors,
And settle in star charts of the astronomer’s room.
Norell flies ahead of the wind,
Not enjoying the soar, but guiding the minds.
She does not yield in falsehood.
She does not perch on the intelligent.
She waits where seekers often dwell,
She hoots in the core of the philosopher’s stone.

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This poem is inspired by my newly found favourite possession.

Yep this owl. I've named her Norell. I've built an entire story around her to make her somewhat like my self-designed spirit animal.