light and dark and where they meet

In France, on the lawn of my father’s old millhouse,

the afternoon sun drew a shadow twice my height,

and I swayed gently to tilt and swell the shape.

There were years behind me, pools of history marked

by disassembly and irresolution. I felt always on the verge

of locating something promising and permanent.

The narratives of love would buoy everything at first,

then flatten the landscape down to inches.

Now, old couples walking the river path passed by me without a word.

The breeze lifted my growing hair, then settled it down again.

I wondered if there would ever be a place where

light and dark would meet on friendlier terms,

doors greeting windows, yeses nudging no’s

like sleepy horses, failure flirting with joy,

winter asking wildflowers on a date. Before me,

the patch lengthened again, sky inching toward evening.

I stood there, equipoised between what had come and gone,

and the strange uncertainties of living. There was nothing to do

but watch and wait.