Nels Hanson
The Stranger
I hear sudden footsteps in this dark
walk the asphalt road and I follow
past the murmur of waking doves,
listening plum trees, hungry coyote’s
ancient plea. “Where are you?” I ask
as silver clouds muffle the half moon,
stars shine harder but too dimly to light
a shoulder or cast a shadow of the one
I pursue, woman or man? All is still
for short breath, the other still as if
waiting, now familiar echo’s quick
return, near, nearer, advancing my
way to meet. I stand on a white line,
new breeze rising with the lost scent
of peach blossoms and pump water.
A blurred something passes through
my chest, night wind parting curtain,
left of the heart as the walker’s steps
retreat. I turn running, calling “Wait!”
into the pale moonlight’s last chance
before the stranger vanishes forever, no
gesture, whispered word or blessing,
leaving only this growing vacancy,
the painless wound something left.
