Flying, Falling

 

This strange landscape, these grey hills,
whisper of a promise forgotten.

 

Lit more by stars than
pregnant moon,
a child could wish
to walk their valleys,
even dance.

 

I console myself blindly —
pleasure can subsume
the ache
for a sharper biting joy
that shrieks muffled within.

 

Turn up the lights, draw close the covers,
stir a cup of chocolate in a grey morning.

 

It is not a bad ending.

 

*****

M.A. Mohanraj
Somewhere in the air,
between Chicago and S.F.
February 28, 1997