When the Road is Mostly Shadow

The road is more shadow than stone.

My steps swallowed by the hush of an unseen sky.

Somewhere ahead, a pinprick of gold

breathes against the dark, not the moon,

for the moon forgot herself tonight,

draped in clouds and sleep.

I walk toward it as if it knows my name.

The air smells of rain.

I step, my silhouette tangled in living shadows,

arms lengthening like the branches above.

Are they reaching for the lantern?

Or warning me away?

The eyes in the clouds swirl,

patient and knowing.

Old leaves sigh beneath my boots.

Every flicker feels alive, a pulse,

a whisper, a promise that the night won’t win entirely.

Once, I thought of hope as a blaze,

but here beneath this vanishing road,

I understand: Hope wears a smaller coat.

It trembles, it sways. It waits for someone willing to follow.

And when I reach the lantern

warm glass trembling in the wind

I see my own hands,

lit for the first time in hours.

The darkness still stands all around me.

But the darkness has to step back.