This old torn coat will do me
in the woods, with a good sweater.
The path is no Appalachian Trail, just a way
among the beeches, oaks and pines
beyond the house, the sigh of traffic not too far.
An owl begins to speak, thinks better of it.
The moon, near full and thinly overcast,
glows dim, soft-spoken,
dropping splotchy shadows where it can.
I work my way through cloudlight,
shadows and their shadows,
hauntings and suggestions.
The trees are kind in the weak darkness,
the path is patient for me to find it,
and find it again.
The porch light doesn’t care how late I am,
but smiling, waits.
This life seldom offers clarion or neon,
white lights leading to red lights.
We walk slowly among uncertain shadows
cast by light reflected. It is enough.
We find our way.