In the Play of Shadows
By John Herlihy

The play of shadows, they seem at first in disarray,
Moving quietly about and slowly, as if on display.
They seem to know what they are obliged to do,
Just as the morning awakens with the arrival of dew.
They play mischievously with the emerging light;
They shape murky edges under the stealth of night.

At first, they give every appearance of interloping;
They imperiously greet us without ever approaching.
Mysterious by nature and shaded curiously bright,
They come into their own in the darkness of night.
They have a rare coolness to them as if they belong,
Although in shadowing the light, they seem as wrong.

Whether dark or murky, shadows rise above reproach,
They make not a sound as they surreptitiously approach.
Creation’s dawn saw shadow and light play in the meadow,
A ballet of perfect movements in the endless play of shadow.
They carefully ink themselves into every nook and cranny,
Creating shade of creepy diminuendo as crass as it is uncanny.

Like a coil of smoke taking flight, they rise up into the air,
Filigrees of darkness against objects with little light to spare.
Twilight is made of long shadows that draw us into its sweep
We stand in our own light; but they still creep around our feet
Shadows give contour and depth to objects, seeming unfinished,
As if the objects are still inventing themselves, still diminished.

Grand promenades and sprawling vistas may be open and extensive;
But the flickering light in the play of shadows is equally expansive.
Everyday, I get up, take my leave and quietly walk into the world,
Always taking notice of the shadows as they behind the light unfurl.
Who am I but a simple man, making my honest way like a forest doe,
Always lost and often found, tucked away content among the shadows.