Is waiting . . . a narrative?
Can it be a way to live?
This usher moon, globular flashlight,
sketches the narrow aisle of night,
the lawn so liquored up, aglow,
I can see my crooked shadow
stretching all the way back
to the climacteric empty tomb, crux
of my belief & doubt. Escape? Now
there’s a story. The treetops sough
& seize with it. Could that be the point:
the earth gone static, iron. Purloined?
Deck all useless wheels with ever-greens.
Bestrew the source, the O, the yet to be seen.
© Lisa Russ Spaar