Shadowplay

Sun slants half madly into the room
which means night has gone up
like a show-curtain
and the day is summoning its actors.

After six extra weeks of winter
and a couple of more of pseudo-spring
a certain nine-and-a half-month old
sees his shadow
which means June will arrive any minute.
Solstice and high summer
will flare like the breath of the dogstar,
enveloping everything in warmth.

His scene has started. He finds himself
in medias res. Like a Re
or a Pharaoh, this one knows his role.
Like a priest, this one knows his lines.
Like a bee, this one knows his business.
Like a fire, this one knows the drill.
Like a shadowboxer he presses a soft fist
to the brow of his opponent.

Dramatis personae: I and I.
The hands of his double are cool
to the touch. Either he
or his silouette begins a soliloquy
in a language he can no longer articulate.

A language spoken in that elusive world
whence he came not long ago.