All Hallow's Eve -
the country school spook show -
our teacher, happy
at our parents' joy
at this crepe-paper witch,
that goblin boy -
We kids loved it all;
the grownups' happy smiles
said it all was good.
Outside,
where, in the night,
the harvest moon was high,
the deep blue sky
descended
upon dim meadowlands.
From inside, the grownups' laughing voices
told us the darkness in the woods
was only good
we'd get to know.
The decades wheel away,
Love's constellations come and go,
and now, I, widower,
live with my Mom, the widow;
she wonders if her son's
a holy man, a saint,
or just some wigged-out warlock,
a goblin, left from long ago.
And what am I to tell her?
And how am I to know?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Poignant, dark, elegant. Uncertainty is a holy state.