The Shadow’s Search for a Nightlight
by Brett Wilson
Dusk has fallen.
Night meets the earth,
The corners, nooks, and shaded spaces,
Gradually find themselves filled
With darkening greens, blues, reds, purples,
And all but mere black.
Enveloped is it by the trees, rooftops, canopies,
And stone walls overgrown with greenery.
Yet on the most still, settled, hopeful,
And joyous of nights,
This draping and pouring of night,
Either met and made full with starlight,
Or maintained by cloud and mist,
Comprises pure and meek dark.
Innocently, it approaches,
It reaches, lands, and, as frail hands,
Seems near to reluctance and flight.
That is, until the lights,
Small and grand,
Far and near,
Faint and clear,
Free of fear,
Appear.
Not deathly, nor oppressive—no.
Clear, restful, protective.
Not sharp, not encroaching, ever.
Cooling, opening, soft.
Such shadowing is blessed and gifted,
Sent until the dawn when it must sleep,
And we must wake.
United with stone, soil, leafage, and water,
It finds and shares reflecting light,
Among flames, mains, eyes, and jewels,
Without which, it falls unseen.
