I wait on mornings,
When the summer sun spills in through windows
In a golden wash
And silhouettes the doors with latent energy.
Inhaling the musk of grass and insects and mountain trails
From the blessed vantage point of our back porch,
The dark night hours that lay behind me
Are all but erased.
But memory keeps these afloat,
These night hours with near-drowned eyes
Wide with the sight of the cold beyond,
And calls them again
When fear deems them useful.
Fear that rises in the throat
In darkened hallways
As pale women with haunted, filmy eyes
And strangled, guttural throats
Crawl like skeletal spiders past every corner.
Morning, with her smiles
And promises of light and life,
Is yet always malleable to the dark spirits
That crouch in shadows
Surrounding the prize of heavily needed sleep,
And the fear keeps me at a distance.
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