Reading Poetry

Reading Poetry

I lie on my bed reading poetry
and thinking of a friend.
I can almost see
our thoughts resting
under the same night lamp,
reading the same poetry.

The shadow from my hand
blacks out the paper.
I can't see what I've written.
The grey pencil fades away
along with the day,
whose light softly retreated
into the mountains.

I scratch my neck and twist some,
moving my hand from the light, so I can see.
I hear the sound of cars,
passing on a distant road,
and remember that someday
I won't be here anymore.

.. and that I may be reaching
for this moment
at some later time in life
wishing the children were still downstairs
playing games on the Internet,
and I could still be here
only dreaming of a future time.

I imagine myself an old woman,
resting in a nursing home,
my mind rusted and blurred,
my hands withered like fall leaves.
I might even call out for the children
or ask where my dog has gone. Then

...fading gently like the light of day
into dreams.
I think of a friend, and
we are walking together
under arbors of fresh born leaves,
the musk of fertile soil rising.

A song of spring plays from the birds,
light dances in the shadows.
We bow our heads with smile
afraid of what a kiss might bring
as we decide together which path to take.