Susan Thomsen posted a prompt from David Lehman to use the last line of Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself as a first line to a new poem. I have my grandchildren spending the night, and we read a silly scary story called The Dark Night. I went back to a New Year’s prompt from Pádraig Ó Tuama for a pantoum about the night.
The Dark Night
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
Footsteps clonking on wooden stairs—
Womblike whoosh of your sound machine,
Your shadow shape shifts in the low light.
Footsteps tender on wooden stairs.
Owl “who-cooks-for-you” wakes;
its shadow shape shifts in this low light.
Time stands still.
Owl hoots who-cooks-for-you
as I breathe your scent before you’re here.
Time stands still.
Will my love be good enough?
I breathe your sleeping scent.
Womblike whooshes from your sound machine.
Will my loving arms be enough?
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
Reflections on the Teche 