Perched in a box at a secondhand store,
Was an owl who’d once watched over folklore.
His feathers were frayed, his colors all gray,
Forgotten and lonely, tucked far, far away.
A tag on his wing said “Please take me home,”
But folks passed him by as they bustled and roamed.
Till one day a hand, gentle and kind,
Lifted him up with a curious mind.
They patched up his wings with the softest of thread,
And fluffed up the feathers that crowned his sweet head.
His eyes shone anew with a shimmering glow,
And they tied 'round his neck a plaid little bow.
Now Oliver hoots from a bright windowsill,
Wiser than ever, and rarely still.
He watches the stars and dreams of the skies,
With hope in his heart and joy in his eyes.
He once was forgotten, a bit worse for wear—
But love found its way and gave him great care.
Now he’s not just an owl, he’s a friend to behold,
With a plaid little bow and a story of gold.