Black Path

There is a spectrum of black.
I learned this one night as we walked
down a darkening path.


Past dark it grew darker, this road
like intense greys it showed
deeper and deeper designs.


Who says there is only one,
Darkness, you said, as the moon
bled black night with the sky.


We beheld one another somehow,
notwithstanding the absence of light,
we looked and saw each other’s shades.


Light was gone long ago, I agreed,
we’re meeting here darkness’s family
the almost blue sons, the plum daughters.


Somehow the path stretched out before us,
we followed its lustful ways,
we grew into a fondness for the dark.


There came the creaking of trees,
their pule among the other dark things,
their hardness giving way to the milky dark.


We came to a black man among the black
trees, sounding in pain, confused, wretched.
I am no more than a shade, he said.


His voice faded into the background,
his voice the sound of a dark one, yes,
one rich in darkness, but not pitch dark.


There are darker ones than he,
and these others are holding up the black,
the entire tribe, with stark affirmation.