Shadows of Time

Detail in Cimetiere DuPere Lachaise, Paris

I find myself in a
place where it is always 5 p.m.
and I am needed to set the time straight. . .
I must be here or I will disappear,
like the cat who left only a smile
as a reminder . . .
of his demeanor . . .

The moon peers down at me through
the skylight in the library . . .
he wishes to read some of the tomes . .
that line these dusty shelves . .
we have an agreement . . .
and I offer him my book of poetry
and a cello song . ..
where there is dignity . . . and grace . .
simplicity . . a cup of cold tea sits at my side . .

This moon is hard and marches forward
like the iceberg .. .. known to carry small children
from the peacefulness of the north pole
where they were conceived
in innocent gardens found
buried deeply in caves of icy blue . . .

that old moon looks like a wedge of lemon . . .
and he patiently watches me . . .
his eye foreboding . . . as he is
inscrutable as a chair . . .
I gaze at him wishing that he were
a lover type .  . . or at least capable
of conversation . . .

I remember walking through the graveyards
in a local town . .
reading every inscription . .
and wondering about these people
who mattered to somebody  . . .
and while I read . .
his face watched mine
as I shed a few tears for these unknowns . . .
and I wondered if anyone . .
would care about me . . .

perhaps the moon
will erect a marble angel to watch over me . . .
or blaze a poem in granite . .
to withstand the elements and time . .
or perhaps my bones will gather flies
like icing on a dark cake . ..
and my flesh will shrivel
becoming dust that unites with dust . . .
perhaps his gaze will reflect on the stillness
of my eyes . ..  like a beacon showing me the way . ..

I saw shadows on the other side of the brick wall
deep they were . ..  like bottomless pools . .
aching to hold
a ray of light .. .
These deep damp blanks
are the loneliest things I know .. .
At least as lonely as I am . . .
and the moon that walks by me . .
even with his luminosity
cannot reach every shadow . . .
or cut away the loneliness
with his sharp beams . . .

He just is . ..  always . ..
and I am the one that sets the clocks . .
for the march of time . . .
and the things that were . .
have gone away . .
sliding down into the pools
of everlasting darkness . .  .

Detail in Cimetiere DuPere Lachaise, Paris

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Beautiful music ... ...

 










 by

Daniel H.