Foreshadowing’s Penumbra
by Odin Roark

In his darkened room,
The tick tock of scissors
Clipping flowers in waiting,
The voices chiming distant,
Even with his ear pressed tightly
Against the wall.

The florist and her customer
Prattle endlessly of grandkids
Of church sermons choked with tears
Black cars and dark veiled mourners.

Then…

Had they wandered off,
Further into the future,
Or merely hiding in the walls,
Crouched in darkly recess,
Deeper in his head.

“Patience, anxious one,”
Someone replies gleefully,
Her identity and origin
His nightly unresolved mystery.

Was he not ready?
Could time be stubbornly refusing him judgment,
Rendering instead another mistrial
As tomorrow’s sunrise breaks the darkness,
Setting up another day of foreshadowing’s penumbra.