Just after the last shadows fell, before the fireflies,
A light flared in the upper branches, a stillness settled below,
And I felt the weight of our lives quietly coming to rest.
We were made of what followed
What came before, of dust and stars, of stories
Told to take the place of what can’t be known.
Walking under the trees into more permanent shadows
You said there was something you would carry
With you, after the fireflies, so I would know.
Something visible, if just barely, as breath in winter.
Last night, I think I may have seen it, high in the oaks:
A bright flame briefly lighting the branches again.
And, later, may have heard: in the gust-driven rain
That knocked on the shutters and doors, as if wanting in;
A persistent sound, that couldn’t be stopped.
That couldn’t be answered.
First published in the April edition of The Hooghly Review.
