Existing in the space between two destinations,
like a layover in an airport terminal,
untethered from the surrounding chaos.
Moving parts coalesce in an impossible synchronization,
of matter big and small, in the process of
delivering what will be to what was.
(Wane: to have a progressively smaller part of its visible surface illuminated so that it appears to decrease in size; especially of a feeling, to decrease in power or extent, become weaker; to draw to a close, approach an end.)
Heavy as the dampened Earth that lies beside the rushing creek
that dragged us in its trudging tide
foreshadowing the passing weeks
Thrown around like dolls in play, limping limbed and messy haired
clothed in old and tattered threads
hollowed out by wear and tear
Stillness from the breaking dawn that settled into sleeping bones
began to stir in whistling winds
that howled down the dusty roads
Fading ink that stained the page with blackness like the dead of night
suggested language barriers
in setting the scene just right
The plans all fell by wayside woes
like disintegrating aged photos
with ways that parted like the seas
and lives that passed as though a breeze
If I were to kneel and pray
The night here is inky black. Rich and uninterrupted by the glowing haze of electric light.
In the late season it seeps into everything quicker and stays longer. Staining the world, saturating it in darkness.
What is this color, this pure black that grows evermore pervasive in and around me as the days pass? As if an entity of its own, it descends upon us enveloping everything until it lifts like fog in the morning sun. A brief intermission.
I've become curious, skeptical even of the behavior of this darkness. How does it change? Where does it linger? When, why? It is a character in the story, a neighbor, a natural force. What do I know about the night?
The world weeps for you today. Tiny droplets hang heavy from every dampened branch, barren in this cold lifeless season. Where did you go to anyway? Perhaps you're wrapped up now in the soft gray blanket of clouds overhead. Your laugh resounds in my mind, from times when you were better.
In the Spring almost two decades ago we sat in smaller bodies beside one another. Butterflies were being released into the air to help us understand the loss of a friend, too young. I still don't understand.
So many of us are left behind now in an emptier space, watching as the sun sets on the brief day we all shared in your light.
Leaves rustle gently in a crisp breeze. A low, golden sun soaks them in light. Everything shimmers in its haze. The cool air is breathed into me, and I can feel it circulating through my parts. On exhale it appears before me in a brief, white wisp. Then is gone. Piece of me dissipating into the ever expansive ether. The dark seeps in, and all is enveloped by the night.