There are moments when he talks to shadows.
He knows they care and never
interrupt to leave him like a light might do.
The moon, the sun even candles
shine way too bright for any conversation.
It’s like that girl he loved in seventh grade
who become his muse and metaphor
for poetry before she overdosed.
It’s like his mother who shut the door
to spend her time in bourbon daze.
Every light he ever knew has left but
in his library
the faithful shadows always stay.
For Margret’s Artistic Impressions at toads. As often with ekphrastic poetry I do not like to write exactly about the picture but just capture one aspect of the picture.