Just Before Midnight Poem by Frank Avon

I walk out into the night,
my hands clasped upon my belly,
thumbs pointed upward,
like a monk meditating.

I slip my feet along the walk
smoothly, smoothly, quiet
I stare straight ahead, but
my eyes ennoble the light.

The coleus have grown three feet,
the Boston fern fans out
as an abundance of ostrich feathers
in the shadows and the light.

The sweet potato vines spread
under the butterfly weed,
completely obscuring the dusty miller
hiding itself, surviving, beneath.

The marigolds still bloom profusely,
the petunias have mostly expired,
the impatiens grow tall and lank,
graceless at the shank of summer.

I pause, then shuffle on,
out of the porch light, into shadows.
Let your mind glow blank; relax
your fibers; distillate: I whisper.

The year 2000 wasn't the end of
anything - except the century,
and technically that wasn't until
2001. Except certain species.

Who knows how many. I was younger
then, almost elderly, but not quite.
I was younger, and welcomed synchronicity.
The next two years would be sung

in perfect harmony: soprano, alto,
bass, tenor. The strings would sing.
The reeds and brass climb upward.
With or without the vulnerable percussion.

But now, I walk out into the night, quiet.
I recite what I remember: '... for he
shall be like a tree, planted by rivers
of water.' Hands clasped, I shuffle on

into the dark.