3 am Encounter

by Dale Patterson

The shepherding bells 
of Saint Francis call
in the night. The moon’s 
halo stutters a blue 
neon ring.
One step in the garden,
I’m engulfed in a hush, 
the dull waxen polish 
of the Cardinal’s dark box,
the stifling of cicadas, 
tree frogs, 
neighborhood dogs,
an omnipotent silence
as if I am watched,
a presence, intrusion,
a beaconing finger 
that touches my soul,
judges my life.
An arrow of light
crosses the lawn, 
takes my hand, leads
me up to the heavens,
a view of the world
with its troubles and pains,
brings me back to my bed,
with the sunlight’s white face
on the walls of my room.
Trembling and knowing
I feel afraid, the idea 
that I could be chosen, 
a lump on the back 
of my hand, as if words
are implanted.