Seeing at Night
By Merryn Rutledge
Leaning forward and furrowing her brow,
the sales consultant asked, didnít I want room darkening shades?
Without waiting for an answer, she pulled from her case
the sample that showed how a charcoal lining shuts out light.
Make my bedroom a vault? I didnít say it but it clarified things.
No, I said as evenly as I could, I want the white, translucent ones,
the kind I can keep open at the top.
I didnít tell her, but Iím telling you
that along with a little privacy, I want to lie awake
visited by moonlight and unaccountable strings of words that come like stars,
haunted by moonless black where memories stalk,
nuzzled by winter morningís slow reveal.
I am telling you this as I sit where I can watch
the slanting sun engrave the sky with stately pines
and imagine the few quivering leaves that cling to the maintain ash
are cedar waxwings hovering near the cold-fermented berries
they will pluck and drink next spring.
Copyright © 2020 by Merryn Rutledge.