At the Center of the Passage by John Grey

At The Center of the Passage

By John Grey

Sun is down completely. Nothing in the sky for now. Moths begin the transition by attacking the porch light. I sit below, sipping wine, rocking like a leaf on pond ripple. The roads before me are empty but cars could come. And, even as the flowers fade, their scents are subtly irrepressible. There’s a chill in the air like a spider crawling up the back of my neck. But, when alone, I do better on the outside, no matter the weather.

Someone might stroll by and wave. A kid’s ball could float into my yard. Some stars may appear. They do. And a thin moon sliver. It does. Who can know if I don’t? Everything leans on my being here.