Day 252: Shaking Hands With Shadows
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when i was a child,
i read a funny poem
about the silly things our shadows do:
“for he sometimes shoots up taller like an
india-rubber ball,
and he sometimes gets so little that
there’s none of him at all.” 〈¹〉
and i thought that’s all a shadow was.
and if it was more,
i was sure i didn’t want to find it.
stay in bright and lucid lights,
censor all your wayward sights,
and keep away from all the things
that beckon back to night.
·
but shadow’s born from light.
·
do you see?
do you see?
there is not one without the other.
they dance and wrestle with one another.
as we do.
as we do.
and after all this time
of chasing the hottest of spots –
straining to keep it directly over head,
or rather,
keep myself directly under it,
in hopes of never casting a shape
or falling
out of line
(as shadows do break lines) –
i found myself fatigued by the fear
and my pace faltered
and the sun moved faster
than my gait
and my shadow gained length before me.
turning, turning, now, i see
the reapless seam upon my feet.
where flesh meets shade
both in me made,
a truer height does reach.
a quiet voice attempts to teach.
and as a truce i hope to make
i stretch my hand, to shadow shake.
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