Poetry by Theresa Wyatt
Who would not tremble here at the sight
of bat wings shrouding window eyes
where alien spirits traipse between
the charred and gobbled trees?
Stop, be still my tripping heart,
there is no subtlety to darkness when tarred
with heavy brush, my skin shades blue
and crawls with insect chatter.
Who can I trust to guide me through this field’s maze
unharmed? Surely not this twilight’s dripping web
and cackle. I need more time to cipher paths
and motives through these brooding indications.
Who waits behind those inky cave clouds?
Could there be a safer destination
where solitudes untouched bed down
below the yellow light?
Look up at that top window!
A small creature, an owl or cat –
is telegraphing auras –
Go slow.
[Editor’s Note: For an October treat, take a look at Charles Burchfield’s Haunted Twilight.]
Theresa Wyatt is the author of “The Beautiful Transport” (Moonstone Press) and “Hurled Into Gettysburg” (BlazeVox Books). Her writing follows the tug of history, nature, and art. Her poems have appeared in the Elm Leaves Journal, Norton’s New Micro, Spillway, and the Press 53 anthology, “What Dwells Between the Lines.”
