A Warm December Evening
Blue is the midnight velvet mist
That has come to find me.
She lays on the world,
Cushioning soft the glow of
Otherwise harsh city lights
And casting the scene of that stage aside
In favor of another.
From cold, black streets on which
Footsteps pound like thunder
On any other night;
Where the roar of tires
On the unforgiving pavement
Under cars that are yet miles away
Wrecks the solitude and brings them distantly near
To crowd my thoughts;
And the hard-edged outlines
Of manmade mountains
Break the darkened sky
To bear witness there
Of something that was made,
Rather than created.
From all of these which make
Their childish boasts of what we have done,
A new backdrop of what we are
Is repainted in her moist fabrics.
Footsteps are muffled soft
Into something echoed in the weeds,
Laying their sound to the work of nymphs
Hiding in the grass, somewhere.
Blackened cold pavement is set wet,
The golden reflections thereupon
Bringing Heaven to Hell
And creating a world reborn
To something that it was before
It was ever "made".
Building lines give way
To fuzzy silhouettes in the softened glow,
And tires, reduced to empty silence -
Their noises lost there somewhere in her folds
Before they reach the shore
Of this enchanted land.
On this wonder-filled night,
Even the twinkling stars yield
To the absolute beauty of this blue lady,
And sit patient in the dark
Somewhere out beyond her veil.
The emptiness and ghostly shapes
Finally setting me then aware
Of her warmly comfortable presence around me
And my presence within her.
The nymphs who mock my steps
Slowly give way
As an undeniable cognizance
Falls on me.
How precious rare is the gift of this moment
Within a lifetime.
This moment will never come
To visit me again;
But she is here and mine to hold now,
Even if only for a moment.
Another wayward wanderer
In the far yet predawn night
Invades the emptiness.
Any other given night and I might do well
To consider him a fairly pleasant bloke,
Of whom I should send along my salutations.
Except that on this night,
The dulled clopping of his steps
Share the haunting echoes in the distance
From nymphs which I had already claimed.
His body penetrates the veils
In which I have already found refuge.
And now, coming into sight,
See how his chest heaves and sighs
With sensations of this beautiful lady!
She is mine!
I am not in a sharing mood.
But then, he keeps his head down,
Completely unaware both of his intrusion
On our dance
And his momentary honor therein.
My discomfort of his being
Eased only by the knowledge
Of his oblivion to her fragile, temporal beauty.
As he fades off somewhere
Into her shrouds, again,
His disappearance brings me back aware
Of her presence surrounding me
And mine in her.
And in that one, very long moment
In which my hands never touch
Though I am touched completely,
We two dance in the beautiful emptiness of the glowing silence.
In that moment,
We two do dance.
Born March 3, 1968 in a traumatic childbirth that nearly claimed his
mother's life, David is the youngest of ten children brought up in a
Missouri household richly structured in the mystical teachings of Pentecostal
tradition. Writing his first short story at the age of nine, he would
go on to locally publish original works of prose and poetry throughout his
high school career while being awarded a variety of scholastic honors in
mathematics and literature.
Graduating salutatorian of his class, he won academic scholarships to
more than a dozen universities before settling into the Honors College at the
University of Illinois. He left the university, disillusioned, less than a
In 1998, David wrote his first novel, A World Without Angels. Since that
time, he has been composing a volume of poetry for future publication.
Copyright © 1999 David Marsh. All
rights reserved. Published by permission of the author.
This page last updated 1-7-00.