One day I may well learn not to write in my sleep, but the images are so clear when I do. Often, I awaken in the darkness to the soft night sounds, the occasional thump of a child falling from bed or the dog dreaming. It is the reason I keep a notebook beside the bed.
Just for a mite of background, this poem preceded and guided A Change for the Better. While I do not want to reveal all the steps I took to get from here to there, I will give you a few stones on which to stand as you wade this one.
Skip down and read the poem. I will wait. <Cues house music. Makes notes on remaining speech. Wait patiently.>
Right here! This is where you left off.
Now, make your comment. <Restarts house music. Fiddles with dimmer switch. Decides lowered light would induce sleep. Returns it to previous setting.>
Comment made? Good. Now, skip down to the scribbling below the poem.
Fireflies and Faeries
The fey flit and chant
between flashes of lightning
which shred the moonless sky
into ragged ribbons of darkness.
Wings’ rhythmic beat found the
melodic tones of the night symphony.
Rain keeps time in its steady cascade,
cymbals as drops crash into the lake.
The wind whistles trills in the reeds and trees.
In the darkened distance, a lone
wolf howls its mournful cry to a
mate now nothing more than a memory.
Descending the craggy hillside, there
on the meadow’s fringe, it catches a
taunting yellow eye, tempting it to see
the glowing light behind its flight.
Fluttering toward the sky, floating on the
breeze, curious about all there is to be.
Stop reading this! Go back up to the top where I am waiting for you!
You identified yourself with one of the characters in the poem. The weather is actually a character. If it is not you, who do you think it is? Are you the firefly? Or are you one of the fairies?
In My Eyes
I am the wolf in the poem. At least, I was when I wrote it. When I reread it to post tonight, I can see where there will be those who will identify me as the firefly.
The fey are my children, thieves of sleep. The lightning, as always, is the flow of ideas which occurs at the most bizarre times. The weather is the daily chaos: school, writing, the stinking CrackBerry, email. The wind… that is Mantra… incessant.
I can identify the craggy hillside and the firefly, as well.
It really is about seeing the change as a light in your life. It may not seem to have any path you can discern, but it is upward. The detours are character building and are adventure in the making.
And since I know better than to think you actually followed the directions… tell me who the characters are in your poem.