a poem for a.m.a.
In the autumn when the light
walks through the window of the late afternoon,
the shadows are unlike any other
this late afternoon, we two sat
together talking about meaning.
We sat, our hushed voices slipping into
the sounds of the wind blowing leaves
past cars. But for the falling sun
whispering pleasant good-byes through
the old imperfect glass, the room was dark,
shadows building on shadows
in the wood-paneled luster. We,
talking truth, were like a flash
of white light filling a darkening day.
Copyright 1983-2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.