Respect des fonds

Silver veil thrown, silk-singing waves
Sigh a truth stinging its course through
Each ancient-hewn volume she saves.
My Owl, tracing whispers, flies to
Leaves soiled with age; spying her name,
She dare does what no man can do—
Her wit decrypting the cursive panic,
My Owl, so swift, resurrects Saint Janet.

With her recurring antic she
Plants the key to her sage passage
Between lines blurring every
Version’s urgently filling page;
Aflutter, a mother fully
Versed in law and other magic,
My Owl’s petitioner, he humbly prays,
That by these presents begging her to stay,

Her wisdom’s more mobile motion
Will rush—taming crimson to flush
The horror of my blush—hoping
My devotion is not too much;
My Saint concedes her most potent
Portion—that peace in which we trust.
Greeting midnight as though made for missives,
Her scroll unseals what daylight prohibits.