|Jul/Aug 2013 Poetry Special Feature|
Digital artwork by Adam Ferriss
It comes without warning, like a hybrid
car, silent and expensive. Fluid,
on dark tires.
I could say it parks on the street
where the curb has our house number
painted on it in green,
but I don't want
to sustain that comparison. Then I do:
no one gets out for a while.
Another car arrives, a real car.
Young people join others in the back yard
around a small fire.
The air is full of hung water.
Gray all day, it's difficult to delineate
day from night. I'll give it that much.
Then the command: hide and seek.
Voices, running feet. Damage to the edges
of the flower beds, and to blooms
bent down by wind and rain.
The thrill of what's fallen: night.
What night means.
Darkness as a spur to save things
in various envelopes
that used to hold something else.
By things, I might mean seeds
gathered late in the summer or early in the fall
after many more interludes of sunlight.
I could make the darkness
lift or rise, like curtains onto bright entertainments,
but it's just the hush I feel now,
anticipation of silvery unknowns
or the wash of light when a full moon
is hidden by cloud cover
but makes itself known.
I don't anticipate dawn.