So dark this August morning
I need to put a light on in the house
to read a page of poetry, to see the difference
this day brings. I'm unprepared. I have no glasses
good enough to view the thing, but can I stop myself
from one quick glance? I go out to the garden, to the corner
of the street. I won't look on that face I know must be half-covered
now, and yet I feel its weight like nothing I have known. It's cold.
I sense a deeper grade of shadow while the sun, a piece of it,
still shines, when the moon slides in between us and
the light. I dawdle just to be a part of it and pick
blackberries hanging, heavy, blacker in this
carnival of mystery, and eat, the sweet
juice running down my chin.
Linda Conroy, a retired social worker, is an observer of people and places and finds them a rich resource for the creation of poetry. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Washington 129 digital edition, Poeming Pigeon, The Penwood Review, and Raven Chronicles, as well as in a previous edition of Shot Glass Journal.