It seems simple enough to convince myself
that it is the nagging back pain keeping me awake
once again in this nebulous late night/early morning
when the forming mix of nerve signals and synapses
work in unspoken collusion, a fusion of thoughts and twinges
that have unhinged sleep:
arthritis and vertebrae keeping me 
from a long day’s well-deserved rest.

But in an honest moment, 
I’d confess it has more to do
with the sobering news of a good friend’s diagnosis:
“This is not one you usually beat. 
The doses of chemo don’t stop anything;
they just slow it down.”

After an hour of hoping to slip back into sleep,
I give up, find enough clothes in the dark
to keep me from shivering (for the most part)
and ease my way down the stairs,
taking care to walk right against the edge
to keep the creaking steps from waking Randa.

After taking another pain pill,
I walk out the back door,
welcome the slight chill of still night air.

A densely yellow half-moon 
spoons just above the timber on the southern ridge,
whitening the thin edge of a long, lean cloud
and tracing faint shadows of iris stems and blossoms
against the white siding on the house.

I sit for a while on the edge of the concrete slab,
watching the way the clouds drift across the moon,
studying the black silhouette of the big spruce,
and how the billowing blooms of the iris
seem translucent in the muted light of such a peaceful night.

The moon slides between phases of brightness
sifted by passing clouds
until the bigger, thicker, darker ones move in
and the veil becomes a shroud.

In the passing skies of our lives,
we move through seasons of calm and storms,
faith tracing its own formings
as we search among the shadows,
finding the true shape of promise
held in fine-textured petals 
and the firm founding of ancient stones

until all that we know
brings us fully and finally
home.


H. Arnett
4/30/2024