John I. Blair
I used to haunt my garden,
Walking every night in darkness
To see the moon and stars
And listen to the night sounds.
Now Iím 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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