In the Still of the Night

Image by author: Back yard, hard edited.

Over the fence what was once a garden

ten, twelve, fifteen years ago

has rendered itself unrecognizable;

 a winding of undergrowth, an overgrown tangle

of weeds and vines, sumac and bittersweet.

The old owner of the land passed on long ago,

his tiny hoarder’s cottage left to a friend.

Uninhabited,  left as tinder to burn to the ground—

faulty wiring or arson for insurance­...we’ll never really know.

The sun has dipped now below the horizon,

dusk turns to darkness,  the former garden

takes on an other-worldly view—

shadow images of arms and hands

stretch out, reaching for the waning moon.

The soft rustle of leaves can be heard, interjected by

the crackle of a branch snapping now and again—

perhaps a skunk or some other wild denizen of the night,

but more than likely one of three feral cats whom

have adopted this yard and made it their home.

The sound of a passing shower, raindrops on tree tops

adds its whisper to the chorus

odors of wet leaves and dampened earth

come slipping through the screen.

There is a certain comfort

in the night sounds, a normalcy…

a sense of security;

counterbalancing the chaos

to erase the lunacy of the day,

I close my eyes now, and surrender

and to my dreams, now slip away.

"Goodnight room"

"Goodnight moon"

© Ginny Brannan 2017

* Quote from children's book, "Goodnight Moon" by Margaret Wise Brown