Walking every night in darkness
To see the moon and stars
And listen to the night sounds.
Now I’m old and growing frail,
Which forbids this pleasure
Lest some late-night accident
Be my last disaster.
So I stand inside my room,
Staring at the night,
Guessing at what might be there
Transpiring in the gloom.
This is not perfect, but I still
Find beauty in the night garden,
Watching the wind-tossed leaves
Of goldenrod and grape,
Watching moonlight on the trees,
Affirming in my mind again
What it means to be alive
Despite the night.
©2017 John I. Blair, 4/30/2017
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