"Eat up the darkness 
with wit, wine and wisdom." - T.S. Eliot

We are made in a place not our own.
The holy books say I am clay.
Breathed into when I was not looking.
Prone to eat darkness in darkened rooms.

It is not our fault when those who confess
to love us leave home when we return to stay.
I can puzzle about their motives all night 
while my daughters run around on the lawn
with sparklers looking like darkened fairies.

Was my grandmother looking into a darkened
future as she held her youngest great-grandchild
against her chest for the last time?

So often there are too many miles down
a long and darkened road which keep us
from being in each other's presence.

Why, then, must either of our darkened minds
lift a finger of accusation against the other
as if pointing at a flaw somewhere defines
a simple treatment that would heal us?

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