Green Eyes

Some people do not drive back the night or make the abyss disappear. They simply stay beside you until the light returns.

When night comes down its staircase, stair by stair,
and all I used to be calls me below,
when I give in, defenseless and brought low,
your voice breathes out my name and waits, still there.

You do not come to save me: you remain.
You do not close the chasm with your palm:
you lay it on my chest; I’m whole and calm,
and your caress lulls me to sleep again.

On waking, your green eyes their vigil keep
beside my own, still blind, still lost in night;
and in them the world and day return to light,
and shadows that in darkness break my sleep,

the deep, its staircase, and its bolted door,
go out. Beside you, light heals me once more.

The Pocket Notebook

A note, an image, a sound, or a sensation can end up becoming a poem or a story. This piece is part of a notebook of small things gathered before they disappear.