He took me to a hillside over Bethlehem
(Pennsylvania, that is).
We spread a blanket down, had with us a thermos of coffee
and the night air full of crickets and frogs.
He leaned back on his elbows;
I followed his gaze upward
to where the day had fallen
into the arms of reckless night
and splintered there and multiplied
into stars.
—
The orchid, under a death sentence, was resurrected on my kitchen windowsill.
And these years later, when night air and coffee are a distant memory
I look at the blossoms in their profusion, weighing her down with delight,
and hear again what he whispered in a dreamy voice as the stars fell:
Oh look, look, look — can you see it? Can’t you see?
This, this, this is it, or almost.
This is how the glory will be.
Leave a Reply