There is a
Dark Spot in
Fireflies fill the meadow
as though the deep night sky
had poured itself down across the land
to dance with the songs of a night lark
and the distant, sleepless loon.
The dew weeps from every blade of grass
that drifts into the reach of sorrow?s light
falling from half the face of the moon.
Even the beetle scarred magnolia tree
seems a little closer to the sadness of moss
on this thick and muggy eve.
Voices from far across the meadow
tethered to the tepid Georgia breeze
glide by like passing strangers.
And I grasp a word from the air
tie it to another and then another
until I try to make sense of nothing.
I guess somewhere high in this tree
hang the echoes of our old laughter
and the dreams we dared to tell here.
Maybe they are the leaves that sprout
each year from the memories of the wood
to remind me of the cycle of life and death.
My life, your death and the shadow of time
that forever sits underneath these branches
always here waiting for a visit from me.
And there is a dark spot in the twilight
where a bright twinkle use to be
peering down through the leaves
at two boys in this tree.
I guess, dear friend, that twinkle was in your eyes.
Copyright ©2002 by Tony Spivey. All rights reserved.