Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Prose Poem: The White Owl

The cold tree stood tall in the winter's eve. Swaying back and forth in the soft breeze of the night. The lights of the house down the road shined so bright, lighting up the frozen green needles of the tree. As the night went on, white flakes fell from the sky, turning the ground into a sheet of paper. Flying high in the sky, was a soft, white owl. It came closer. Closer, until it was no longer flying. The white owl now stood on the branch of the tall tree, warming it's branches. Using the tree for as much warmth as it could get, the owl just waited; waited for the sun. In the cold of the night, the owl found comfort from the tree and the tree found comfort from the owl. Waiting till morning, till the earth would warm up, giving the owl the strength to fly away. As morning came, so did the sunlight. The snow still glistened along the smooth ground, as white as the fur of a new born polar bear. Soon, the sun warmed the earth enough for the owl to once again take flight. The owl took flight. As it flew away, the tree went from having warmth, to being frozen again. The day went by and the lonely tree stood in the same spot. Small animals passed every once in a while, but none stopped to visit. There was no sound, there was no sight except the white of the ground and the house down the road. As the night approached, the owl came back once again. Needing a place to sit, the owl perched on the tree's branches once again for warmth. The tree turned from cold and lonely to warm again. As long as the owl would come back each night, that was enough for the tall tree.

2 comments:

  1. I love this - which William Wordsworth prose did you source this from? I'd like to read more so look forward to your advice. Thanks :)

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  2. Sorry but this is not by Wordsworth. There are many errors in it that he would never have made: he knew the difference between it's and its. Nor would he have written "new born". It is one word. it's a pretty poem but it is not by him, and wasn't even written during the times he lived in, and probably wasn't even British.

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