Her Shadow Speaks

Light rain on the deck,
chrysanthemums dewy
in damp terracotta skirts.

The dirt smells clean.
The world smells healthy,
wet grass good.

I lean on the rail,
watch the nearest pine tower
spread wide on the charcoal sky.
I loom moonlit against the tree.
The curve of my hair is outlined,
my long nightgown, and bent elbows
silhouetted on the branches.

I feel autumn within and outside
me. I'm enchanted with stars,
the cool night, and my shadow.
I want to make rabbit ears
and flying birds, dance
as if I'm six again,
performing alone in Cadwalader Park
on the bandshell stage,
singing for robins and squirrels.

My shadow smiles at me.

Even if I can't see it,
I know it's wry
because this must be
how Peter Pan felt
when he grew up.