After the harvest has been made
But before the frosts of winter have begun
The Midwest holds a special sort of magic
On nights when the moon takes its rest
Drive out to a small town
Then head away from the highway
And toward the darkness
When you realize that you’re nearly alone
The darkness seems friendly
Welcoming
As though it expected you
Whenever you’ve arrived
Far away from the dimming haze of light
You’ll discover endless universes
Represented in tiny, fantastically powerful orbs
That reach out singly to touch the whole of you
And wonderfully, graciously
This silent communion can last as long as you like
Or at least until the stars begin to fade.
© Gayle Force Press 2002.
As always, you can find Franklin’s books here.
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