She is the densest darkness of the woods;
impenetrable until daylight, and even then,
pit-falled and precarious.
You think you can avoid her if you wait until morning,
but she’s a vapor that creeps though the cracks of any room
like Radon - undetectable by canary or aqueduct trout.
I glance up from my book and she’s appeared.
Her head tilted like a Jikata listening
for the strains of a song.
Teeth slightly blackened - chlorophyll flashes
against her florescent skin;
melted moon in a midnight kimono.
I used to shame and refuse her,
but how do you cast
a shadow on a shadow?
Now when she returns on the odd occasion,
I let her pour out her bitter green tea
and tunefully tell her ancient story.
(c) 2007 Marissa Dodge