Shadow

I don't want to be this thing
To be reckoned with like the blues;
This weary presence beckoning
Swelling like fear or delight
On the ocean of your day,
This wind dragging clouds
Across your star shrouded sky
Lifting your eyes like kites,
This shadow that never quite leaves
Yet never really seems to stay,
This father delayed
By the weight of his day.

(1992)

Jeffrey Spahr-Summers