She tells me I should be full of laughter, not tears;
more susceptible to the influxion of fey –
those spirit beings too much with us
now and long, still harbor ill-will toward us
for this dying earth, our dwelling and habitus.
I’m not much good at that, the light I mean.
I never seem to know its face, charm and grace.
The darkness suits me better, in its absence
I discover a light like no other:
a place and time outside
the common weal of things,
a momentary quietus where Silence speaks to me.
Maybe she’s right and I should listen more
to those shades among the deep green woods,
the one’s that softly sing and dance, elven kin
she calls them: part light, part air –
gossamer particles of something in excess of us.
I know the darkness well. It keeps me.
But those other tribes seem so full of emptiness;
like butterflies in the sun, they last a day,
then fly away never to be seen are heard from again.
Maybe we need the darkness to see the light?
Fire-spangled emerald wings glitter down…
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.