Shadows cling to the dry grass

shaping vertical lines of fences and trees.

In a moment, the black stripes disappear

and what was seen will fade

into the blackness of the night

gone, forever as

the universe, and me, constantly





. . .

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.
—Carl Sandburg

Have you ever danced with a shadow? Maybe you chased your shadow. I recall my fascination with shadows as a child. Shadows stalked the lawn. My Dad made shadow puppets on the wall, and rabbits danced.

Shadows play, and shadows lurk. No matter how we see them or how we expel them either in darkness or full light, shadows never materialize. 

I occasionally fall prey to believing that some shadows follow me into the darkness, haunting, and pushing me into spells of unhealthy rumination. Those shadows do not serve me well.

When that happens, I force myself to push them into the light. Glare at them. Reminding me that shadows only live for a moment before they are gone. That shape, their depth, never repeats itself.

The only moment I have is this one. Use it well. Like Mary Oliver, I ask, “what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

pink red buds blossom on a single branch with blue sky and limbs in the background. Text: Poetry centers the heart. by Kathryn LeRoy

. . .

And always—

Be kind. Be brave. Be you.

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Photo: Shadow Lines © Kathryn LeRoy

Today’s poem is a quadrille, 44 words only.