Ad Libitum

The Shadow

The waking of a Summer Night, in the midst of the hay moon, shadows of every child danced underneath the stars. The sky's eyes rejoiced as the silhouettes danced in the hay and in the doorways of frightened younguns. The revelations of their nightmares lurked in the shadows, who tarried over their fawn-like noses with fingers of ash and divulgence. 

What crept yon the black horizon in the seventh month? Aye, the feared and repressed. As mine oscillated near the door's corner, farthest from the light, I'd beseeched it away. Like an eel in the eyes, I stood loftily... away and away from the curdling shadow had the burning fire of words taken shape on its tongue. Had I seen the rapture in its eyes as it cursed my decree... and in the time of turning pages in an old book, had it dissolved into the walls like a newborn's dream. 

The twilight sky, stretching for years and years, heard my sigh. It heard the growth of Lilith hair gliding from the roots, into the patterns of my face. For the breadth of three-hundred days, the fables of man and mystic shrunk and reeled like burning scrips into the past. So did mine, and every other night had my dreams been void or foolish. The Garden of Dream's fruit held grandeur and charisma in every seed; this appeared every fortnight after a developing caterpillar was captivated by suicide. For as long as suffering remained on earth had the garden appeared in every child's dreams. Some children remember, some do not. 

''Who's in the garden?'' I called. The dream was silent, churning its own visions like whirling clouds. Darkness filled the garden's center, where the liberty of its flowers were dying in the shape of a most grotesque body. A pebble my foot tread burned the flesh with a powerful buzz, like the sound of a baritone's vibrato. ''Who implores the sight of your sacrilegious face?'' I inquired. The leaves scratched the surface of the pebbles at the fore of the garden's body as I walked toward the dying blossoms. The world did not stand still for me, but for the breathless motions of the shadow at the garden's heart. 

''What implores thy presence at the heart of the garden? To mark the manifestations in latency? What have I to concur with you?'' I motioned a hand toward the apparition. 

''You sleep well, always,'' the wraith confided. ''The colors of your dreams take pity on me. I rebuttal with sour soil... the rotten notions.'' 

''You subdue me.'' 

''Aye, for your negation yesteryear devised a grave until the seventh moon of our time being. I ever trowed our fleeting seconds casting its feet into the shores of yore... How miserable I am to sit at the heart of this garden.'' 

''How miserable am I to bear rotten fruit,'' I lulled. I lingered at the corner of the tall alder tree's shadow. The sprouts adjacent held passionate rows of strawberries, bustling with life and humming between my fingers as I picked them to eat. Instead, I bowed to the shadow and offered them as a gift. The garden roused its long-waiting season for offspring. As it made love to both mist and sun, the shadow and I ate berries and talked of hindrances. Until dusk, we'd stuffed our bellies with the garden's music and spring. When the stars yawned and stretched into the sky's bosom, the shadow and I were full, not only of the fruit but the opera of auguries in each other's throats. 

The music of angels, harps, shofars, lutes, and wind reverberated into our ears. It was the first time I'd realized my destiny with the first shadow. How finally, the moon yearned for its return. With a bow, my lips sighed at the forthcoming release of the wraith. For every time a child reconciled with its shadow, had it gone back to the moon's craters and stirred back into the stars for the next. Every generation's morning, a babe's cry provokes the stars' movements in their adornment for its plan. The cycle starts again, and though my eyes wouldn't see the shadow again, the soul would. 

''When I come back,'' I whispered, blowing a kiss to the moon, ''you'll take care of me.''