Shadows

Imagine the sadness of shadows.
Their contrite obscurity.
Their tenuous hands
holding cups of coffee.
The feet
that do not seem
to belong to them.
The confusion
in poorly lit rooms
where they meet
for assignations with lamps.
The consideration given to
alternate realities
and to rumors of starlight.
The days stretch
like long rubber bands,
thinning and thinning with the light,
until they snap.
Ephemera.
Each shadow lives
only a day
and is then a seed
planted in the night,
beneath the full moon
for good fortune,
falling onto earth
like a black angel
booted out of the heaven
of sunlight.
Stretching themselves.
Dark dragonflies,
with new wings.