Silhouette. 

Sometimes you can tell more from shadow
than being in the light,
from line and posture, from the energy
of how you move in the night,

your body a shadow
of defeat or victory, or love or betrayal,
passion or purpose,
unfettered by distraction of color and clothing,
pure movement, unable to lie,

more honest than lips, more true
than the myths we tell ourselves and
the myths told to us, like Scheherazade,
late into the night, tales we tell to survive another day.

But a shadow believes it is safe.
It has no need to lie, no need
to pretend it is anything more

or less, than what it is.

 

About this poem

Scheherazade, if you are not aware, is the real heroine of The Arabian Nights, the woman who, night after night, weaved fantastic stories hoping to keep herself alive, for as long as her stories left her master wanting more, she lived.

And don’t we do the same? Weaving our stories? Wearing our protective clothing designed more to disguise our vulnerability than to expose it. Even to lovers, priests and children? All of whom, in their love, will still love us, no matter what. If we would allow it.

The picture was taken not far from here, at Consider Bardwell farm, which makes artisan cheeses that win awards all over the world, yet are also sold, in a barn, to us locals, by the honor system, no less. I often ride my bike to their farm and buy a block of cheese to enjoy a taste of perfection, right here. Right now.

I love living in Vermont.

Tom