In A Light That Floats
Marc David Decker © 1989

At four o’clock on a night whose thrill
Is lost, along with inner will,
Then filled with days of things denied,
He leaves his dusty windowsill.
Aboard a leaf like a carpet ride,
To drift and glide and sail the hills,
With moon and stars and heart to guide,
In a light that floats… as a summer’s will.
On a night that’s still… in a light that floats,
On a wind that whirls as a winter’s will,
A rebel page from the book of thrills,
Found refuge in a hand so chilled.
Cookies and mushrooms and large handbills,
With pictures of elephants and wild animals,
Were in the pockets of the man,
To whom belonged this chilly hand.
And none among the witnesses,
Of young… whose unsung restlessness,
Could ever hope to warm the hand,
Did know their innate witlessness.
Yet knowing not the hunter’s kill,
He drifts and glides and sails the hills,
On a wind that whirls as a winter’s will,
In a light that floats on a writer’s quill,
At four o’clock… on a night that’s still.