
She is so often present
as the sun makes its
daily retreat, we
imagine she is
mysterious as
she hides, or
does she take
refuge in the shadows.?
Only a few
have truly seen her
and they speak only
of her luminescent
alter ego.
The problem, or one of them, is
the lack of music today. We have
all manner of what people call music,
but not the music of the sort
we need, needed once and found,
as we stormed the bastions
and bastards who mired us in war,
who shunned darker brothers
and sisters, who made alienable
basic rights to half of us without
rhyme or reason, save greed
and fear of loss of status, power.
Where are the songs now,
calling us, you, to regain
the victories, no matter how small
that we won with our sweat
and often our blood, eroded
or taken over time by those
who live in the shadows, who
crawl out in the dark, who
dread the light we would
so willingly shine on them again.
In the night
what I am perched
on the edge of sleep
you appear, just
out of the dream shadows,
avoiding the light,
you are featureless.
I call to you and I think
you must be smiling
but your voice is the wind
through the Austrian pines
and the drip from the ever
shrinking icicles
that slowly abandon
the eaves of the house.
There are moments
he said, when everything
is suddenly clear
and obvious to me.
But they slip away
and their shadows
quickly fade away.
She said if you stop
looking for the fog
the clarity might linger
besides, how do you
know what is clear
and what is not.