I was very old that day;
Edgy I was, quite afraid
As I lay supine upon the beach,
My mind inverted like a sunken ship,
My arms, my legs, as still as ice
Absorbing heat as best I could
But then I remembered
An array of things
That I’d allowed to languish:
Things quite genuine,
Housed within my head
Yet scattered like toys
In the yard outside;
Things that live and die
Of their own accord:
Someone sitting in a chair,
Swirling curls of silver hair
Asleep upon her shoulder;
Porch light on a rainy night,
Crayon yellow in the dark,
Crazy moths in senseless circles;
People in the back-and-forth:
Reliable, rapacious,
Loving, loved and leery-eyed;
Winsome moon fading fast,
Lost in morning's winding sheet;
Arms that reach, hands that hold;
Tremble tears and heartache eyes
And then I remembered the so many times
I stepped into the living room
And I could see, as often as not,
A sprawling candelabra
Set upon a white credenza;
Winding silver arms
With upturned palms,
A candle rising out of each,
Dancing veils of yellow light
Like hooded priests in waiting.
Walter Weinschenk is an attorney, writer and musician. Until a few years ago, he wrote short stories exclusively but now divides his time equally between poetry and prose. Walter’s writing has appeared in a number of literary publications including the Carolina Quarterly, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Gateway Review, The Closed Eye Open, The Writing Disorder, Courtship of Winds and others. His work is due to appear in forthcoming issues of The Raw Art Review and Iris Literary Journal. Walter lives in a suburb just outside Washington, D. C.