Poem for Thanksgiving

Mr. Owl’s Apology
 
High above
the woodland din,
perched on a
listing redwood
limb,
I spy
the hollow
far below
where humble
creeks
and rivers
flow,
where songbirds
flit and
beauty lies,
where greening
trees and
bluing skies
hide forest
creatures
shivering,
their flittering
and fluttering
their wintering
and summering,
set my heart
a spin-owing.

Poetry Challenge: Rictameter

Greetings, All–

Sometimes I write poems in response to prompts posted on the Miss Rumphius Effect blog.  This one calls for a 9-line poem with the following syllable counts:  2-4-6-8-10-8-6-4-2, and requires the first and last lines to match.

You

You are…
the crest upon
a robin’s chest, the blue
in a bluebird’s feathery nest.
You’re the song I sing when I go to sleep,
the words I pray my soul to keep
when I need to be strong—
and if I’m not…
you are.