I am like dust sifted from the sandman’s basket
fallen on to the floor,
waiting patiently for my big moment,
but only the broom and dustpan find me.
I am all the nights passed without note,
unremarkable and still.
I am the water pooling under melting ice.
I am the row of shabby seats way at the back
where the lights don’t reach.
I can’t make you see me.
I can’t make anyone more aware without making myself visible,
and like a night moving creature I am too wary of the bright.
To step into the spotlight would require an introduction,
to learn illegible lines,
and hand out programs I am ill equipped to provide.
So much of me is a satellite,
in constant movement around,
Time heals, time flies,
so they say,
but those are ones who time has been kind to.
The angels of memory only look on in sorrow
holding up their hands in helpless support
while the jewels I wear,
as heavy as their history,
drag me down like wet sheets knotting about my legs.
Briefly I may watch from the shadows in fascination and puzzlement,
But the wind changes and the scenes shift
and it’s easier to stay in orbit,
alone but shining faintly,
than brave the brittle ice.
Better to be your own timid light,
than find yourself trapped on stage….
where you aren’t seen at all.