30 Mar 2010


Sometimes I sit with the night.

I sit on the back step,
and rest my day-worn
spine against the door,

tilting my head,
I sigh for the sounds
of dripping rain and
summer's cicadas,

I breathe in the
smell of damp
and a lingering waft
of an oven-baked dinner,

I see
a grapefruit lying
in the drain of the roof,
a sole bat flies across
the skyscape,

and think of our neighbour
pacing around his washing
line (pegged with plastic bags)

Not so far away
the droll of television,
a plane overhead,
and tires skidding
wet bitumen

my shadow is cast
against bricks,
and my back relaxes
into wood,

sitting with the night revives me.

it lets me know that there is life rich and vast
outside myself and my busyness -

it is the music and the madness and the buzz and the gentle drip,

the conclusion,
a falling curtain on my weary shoulders -

eyes closed,
breath slow and steady,
I whisper take me -

another bat flies high
and my lover appears
by the door side,
beckoning me back into the light
and I follow him.


  1. Beautiful.

    I could see and hear it all with you.


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  3. I think this is my favorite poem of yours to date. Won't you write it out for me to display? Or sell it on etsy...

  4. Dear mme I am glad you like it; I will certainly write it out for you and mail it with my next correspondance...


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