One Moment Is Time

             Shannon Esposito

Haunted:

Word of mystery,

Haunted is where

I lay my head,

And breath.

On a windless night

Madelaine tiptoes,

Tiny baby feet on

 Aged hard wood floors.

Creaking, cautious steps

 Liquid blue eyes, wide

Questioning-

She asks without asking,

I nod

Yes!

I heard them too.

The pop and poke of igniting flame

Coming to life in a dead stone fireplace,

My feet come out of the covers as if

I can feel the warmth.

Is forever a cold place?

An unanswerable pale knock,

Nothing ascends the stairs, in tempo.

The scent of wood to ash drifts in,

Not with fear or intrusion

But only curiosity.

What would time be if it were not a line?

If it were layers, fine sheets of space

One moment, all and everything.

 I stretch, looking past the ceiling-

It is not in motion, we are.

It does not reach a long arm into

The future

Where our future lay in wait,

Nor flow like blood in an endless vein.

We are not its sons and daughters,

We are its creator.

In the lonely silence now

I wonder,

Do Madelaine’s steps

Haunt

The fire-starters?