cast in half-light, the only light

a shadow of jacaranda blossoms in soggy grass.
when I look again, there is nothing purple. sad stalks squish brown and yellow.
when I step onto the path, I leave no watery footprint. it is as if I am a ghost,

and I see the ghastly strangled blossoms because I too have wilted
in a season not my own, under a sunrise not my own, with a name not my own.
cobbles rise up to meet me on my night walks. dawn bends down with its light,

its half-light. the purple blossoms are not in the trees this late in the year,
but somehow I know where each one bloomed,
where next year’s swollen heads will burst from bud.

---

in the half-light, the only light

jacaranda purple glints in the shadows
but it’s gone when I look again.
sad stalks squish brown and yellow
in the grass that takes no print.

I float like a ghost these rainy nights
over rough paths cobbled and cold.
not even daybreak’s partial light
reassures me my name is my own.

I know the purple blooms are gone
from the trees this late in the year.
yet I know where each one
was and where spring’s buds will appear.