Richard Wilbur
The warping night air having brought the boom
Of an owl's voice into her darkened room,
We tell the wakened child that all she heard
Was an odd question from a forest bird,
Asking of us, if rightly listened to,
"Who cooks for you?" and then "Who cooks for you?"
Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,
Can also thus domesticate a fear,
And send a small child back to sleep at night
Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight
Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw
Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.
my sister-in-law Laura recently posted a website (LDScrosswordpuzzles.com) and when I was checking it out I was also working on finding a poem for the day and thought of this one, about words. I originally read it in Harper's magazine, but I don't remember what issue.
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