And Everything is About
An unforgiving sliver
of a late-rising moon
shares so little of itself
as to leave even
the nearest star
to its own devises
in order to shed
the least of its
own reflected light.
And I so firmly rooted
to this Earth even as
grasses grow beneath
my feet and great bushes
of honeysuckle fill
with berries and birds
while trees grow so full,
so many, until I fear
that I might disappear.
But still, I wait,
like some passenger
on a fulcrum,
precisely in that moment
where nothing
is happening
but all that
I know is just
about to change.
Day Comes to Southern Illinois
A new moon sleeps
tonight in the old
moon’s arms.
Stars struggle
to make their presence
known. Silence.
Then lights appear,
first at this house,
then the next and the next
as farmers and ranchers
prepare for the day.
Lights blink on in homes
where parents awake
their children for school,
making sure they eat
a good breakfast, inspect
backpacks for completed
homework. The feed store
lights come on and then
at the Red Star café
where the owner doubles
as head waitress, puts on
three pots-no decaf-
for people who wander
in after early chores,
bus drivers who’ve
finished the day’s first run.
Folks who need their fix
of ham and eggs, toast
and emergency coffee
to get them through
the day. Now the one road
through town is alive
with trucks and tractors
pulling hay wagons,
drivers complaining
about the pavement, broken up
over the years by frost and freeze,
thaw and tonnage. The same drivers
who vote down any township bond
issue that would fix the roads
but raise taxes. Next, the bank
opens with its out-of-place
Greek architecture and Doric columns
and the post office in the rear
of the pharmacy that would
gladly sell stamps to anyone
who’d buy some postcards.
But no one in town can remember
when that last happened.
Finally, the two bars where
you can get a shot of rye
and a beer to wash it down
and watch the high school
game on the local cable station.
Then nightfall. The blue aura
of televisions illuminate
iced-over windows until after
the ten o’clock news when
one-by-one homes call it a day.
Dark. Stars appreciate
again the opportunity
to put on their performance
if only the waxing-crescent moon
would cooperate, hit its mark,
and start the evening’s show.
Richard Luftig is a former professor of educational psychology and special education at Miami University in Ohio and now resides in California. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals in the United States and internationally in Canada, Australia, Europe, and Asia. Two of his poems recently appeared in Realms of the Mothers: The First Decade of Dos Madres Press. His latest full-length book of poems A Grammar for Snow is available from Unsolicited Press. More of his work may be found on his website.
Pegasus 