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Vardry Spencer

Midnight Walking

My soul walks at midnight searching
empty places, holes and corners where
moon doesn't glow.

I know better than that: Death is final.
It is loneliness that refuses to listen, to
let things leave.

In my saner, kinder moments of being, I
know that love can't die--not really. It's
lost kisses and embraces that crave resurrection;
puffy little golden laughs that re-
fuse to say so long. Fond memories cling
to the inner wall: Innocent, not knowing
they are lost dreams from yesterday.

I can smile now, having seen the rift between
the fact and the play. What dreams
can't provide are given by the beauty of
the rose, the small doe standing alone, eyes
wide and dark: listening, looking, hesitant.
Or soft, pink dawn shyly peeking over the
horizon, then madly painting space with brilliant color.

The eye that sees without the veil, the dream,
sees love unclothed, mystery smiling from all
things real.