Light and Shade
Feb. 12th, 2006 04:59 amUngreeted by howls from any beast, the full moon crosses the sky from which it has driven the stars. Alone, it glares at the world. The first half of the night it exposed the far side of the street, and I stood watching the stark scene from my shaded porch. Now it exposes me as I step out the door, and the far side of the street is a pit of blackness. Someone could be watching me, I suppose, but it would most likely be a wandering cat or raccoon, or maybe a night bird perched in a branch. They could see me even without the aid of that bright moon. The neighbors,less keen-eyed, all sleep.
I suppose that one might wake, disturbed from sleep perhaps by that harsh light filling a window lately dark, and, wakened and walking to the kitchen or the bathroom, might glance out a front window and see me standing on my porch, gazing at that white orb. They might compare the sight to a scene in some dream they've had. I imagine them concealed there in their dark room, posed like someone in the vast silence of a Hopper painting, watching me standing here posed like someone in another Hopper painting on the opposite wall of a deserted gallery, my feet stuck to my angular shadow which bends from brick pavers onto paler wooden siding. That I can see my shadow when I turn makes me feel as real as I would appear to be to that imagined watcher. I am reassured that the morning will not bring visitors who will walk through the gallery and see us there, framed and immobile in our respective settings.
( Sunday Verse )
I suppose that one might wake, disturbed from sleep perhaps by that harsh light filling a window lately dark, and, wakened and walking to the kitchen or the bathroom, might glance out a front window and see me standing on my porch, gazing at that white orb. They might compare the sight to a scene in some dream they've had. I imagine them concealed there in their dark room, posed like someone in the vast silence of a Hopper painting, watching me standing here posed like someone in another Hopper painting on the opposite wall of a deserted gallery, my feet stuck to my angular shadow which bends from brick pavers onto paler wooden siding. That I can see my shadow when I turn makes me feel as real as I would appear to be to that imagined watcher. I am reassured that the morning will not bring visitors who will walk through the gallery and see us there, framed and immobile in our respective settings.
( Sunday Verse )