Posts Tagged ‘night’

Walking the ridge when the sunset
is almost a memory, my daughter
and I make our way through the dark
and we sing an old tune taking turns
with the words and although we can’t see
the dirt road right beneath us, we trust
the road’s there as we step, step again, step again—
it is like that, this life, we lose sight of the path
but sometimes there’s singing,
and sometimes, a loved one’s beside you,
and how does this happen,
the dark’s no less dark,
and the path’s no less lost,
but your feet stay in synch as you step,
step again, step again.   

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After the Film

We leave the desert flats of Australia
and the axe and the snakes and the flames
and walk into the quiet, starlit night
and become two characters in our own lives.
This is the part where the mother and daughter
lean into each other and walk extra close
so they can speak in tones so low
the audience can’t hear their words.
The camera follows them with a low angle tracking shot
focused on where their hands are joined,
then it tilts to the sky to end the scene
in an extremely wide shot where our characters
are barely a blip on the screen,
surrounded by infinite mystery,
the stars, the only lights.

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On the longest day of the year,
my mother and I sit on her back porch
and wade into worlds where we disagree.
I watch the surface of the lake—
how the reflection changes as day
becomes dusk becomes night,
every moment of it beautiful.
How quiet it is, this shift,
so quiet a woman could miss it.

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Beneath the Big Moon

I walk in the chill,
and the past
walks beside me,
smooths my tears,
holds my hand,
faithful as evening,
gentle as a shadow.
By the time
I re-enter my home,
it has slipped
inside me again.
We walk through
the door
as one.

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What the Dark Might Say

What I love tonight about candlelight,
is the way it teaches me about the night—
how the night presses against the windows,
how it cradles the room in a dusky embrace.
How the dark is not like a palm that,

when pressed to a chest,
must stop when it meets the skin—
no, the dark is more like love
that moves through any boundaries
to touch everything.

If there is a longing in me
to be anywhere but here,
it does not show up.
It has lost its feet
and does not try to run away.

Tonight, the darkness offers to smooth
the parts of me that want to run, to hide.
Tender as a womb, the dark kisses my fears.
It says, Sweetheart, I will hold you.
No matter how small your light tonight, I will hold you.

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I Might Have Resisted

Breaking open with loss
and beauty at the same time,
my heart a frightened bird
beating against glass panes,
I almost ran from the warm theater,
threading through happy chatter
to stand alone in the cold night air,
thinking I could cry unnoticed in the dark.
But then one, then two friends
found me and took turns pulling me
into their softness, wrapping me
in such tenderness, weaving
low and soothing sounds around us
until out of love and touch and voice
they made of the moment a nest.
So gently they held my fragility
at the edge of festive shouts
and back slaps and joyous banter.
The night itself laced through
our small circle like a black silk ribbon,
tying us together,
It was only a few moments.
it was forever.

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One Midnight Rendezvous

when the silence
waits for me to meet it,
how can I sleep?

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One Secret

not the brilliant stars
but the infinite dark
what I wish on

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September Night

The mountain air forgets to be cold,
and my daughter and I walk in the dark
beside the river. I almost can’t see,
yet thanks to starlight,
we step over roots, over rocks.
There are moments,
even whole chapters of our lives,
when we understand how the smallest
bit of light makes a difference.  
Tonight, we are laughing,
singing as we go.
Trust, too, is a kind of light.
In this dark moment, it is all I see.

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Night Walk

            for Lara and the Dark

Some conversations prefer the dark,
so, long after sundown we walk
in the nearby field
where a wide path’s been cut
through tall grass gone to seed
and there’s just enough starlight
to make out the twin dirt ruts
where we can walk side by side.
I love conversing this way,
when the dark is less a setting
and more a partner in conversation—
as if nothing we say
could ever make it stop holding us,
as if it will listen for as long as we speak,
as if it will fill in any gaps
with its own simple syntax
of infinite ink. And so we walk,
you, me, and the gentle dark.
When we finally return to the light-warm home,
a little midnight comes in with us
and joins us for sleepytime tea.
It seems to know not even a whisper is needed,
just the certainty that we are being heard,
truly heard, the way
only an old best friend can listen,
and there’s nothing we can’t say.

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