Will-O’-The-Wisp- A poem.

The lights above
guide the lights below.

Red, green, yellow.

I drive home to her.
A green arrow pushes
me to the left, and I
follow.

Green, yellow, red.

I’ve never seen that weeping
willow dipping to kiss
the road. Yellow leaves
dripping like paint.

Yellow, red, green.

Stop. Wait for the red eye
to blink—go straight, take a left.
A lake keeps the moon,
and I keep making
wrong turns when
the lights above—

Red, green, yellow.

Her driveway is inviting, yet
the cobblestones are all
wrong. A yellow road vacillating
to the green front door
I don’t recognize. But the porch
light is beckoning,
luring me to knock.

Green, yellow, red.

She answers, red hair
instead of brunette. And the ring
on her finger is missing,
not even leaving a ghost.
Her lips are pleasant, red pressed,
yet the hands holding mine
aren’t familiar.

Yellow, red, green.

Green eyes go into mine,
but they should
be brown. So I go—
the lights above
guide the lights below.
Hesitate at the yellow flashing,
winking, blurring. It’s clear,
and the prisoner moon ripples
in front of me, almost begging
me to notice
the green light is really

Red, green, yellow.

Featured Image by Craig Sunter under Creative Commons.

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Categories: poetry

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