The Spell of Idea’s Flame

Hunkered on the exiled smoker’s stoop,
streetlight’s enough for me to read by.
Even shadow, moonish white,
is bright enough to write within.
This lunar shade’s ideal for poetry
beneath the benchmark moon,
my pencil sharpener and palette.

Stampeding stallion clouds
compete above an early March.
Flickering flashes semaphored by trees
into spaces by the stuttering leaves
intimate illumination warm enough
to thaw winter stiffened candle
luring waking moths
into the spell of idea’s flame.

Mellowed beams benignly
cast their script
spelling out the rites of spring,
where there’s light there will be warmth
eventually,
ambidextrous electricity
providing passion’s heat
and the light to paint with it.

If I’m in harm’s way,
exposed in this half dark,
my only weapons: paper, book and pencil
against the rumored dangers
of this midnight neighborhood.
if harm should really threaten
would I think to holler help
or have belief that it would come.