on the hill under old pines and watched
dusk spread like a shroud draped
across fields of corn stalks, withered
and spent at summer’s end.
Hearts heavied.
The full moon rose, a fluorescent sphere
floating above the rise of the blue
mountain ridge. Jupiter sparkled cold and
orange cinders escaped the crackling fire,
spiraling up and over our heads.
Night deepened.
Sisters, brothers, and cousins joined by birth
and by fate, numbed by the cold or the day,
sitting still in the dark; shadow figures against the firelight.
You sighed and wrapped that tattered gray
blanket tighter across your breast.
Grief wrenched.
After a while, thawed by the chilled wine
or the muffled voices of our children playing
in the dark, you wondered aloud how
we could sit so still and not feel
the earth spinning on its axis.
We stared at the black heavens as if
God himself might answer back.
And there, for so brief an instant, a shooting star.
Leaving us nothing else to say.
Karen Corrigan
September 2009
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| John Luttrell, Jr. with niece, Karen (me!). |
