Eclipse
November’s moon is in eclipse—
and what am I,
barefoot in the dark yard
at five in the morning?
Jupiter and Mars,
Orion and the countless, nameless
clustered stars
erupt in brightness
now that the sky is theirs.
Why does the shrouded moon,
lost in its privacy,
seem to consider me?
Forty years ago,
you and I woke up at three
to watch the full moon
vanish. Astonishing
to think how new we were
to one another then,
walking lamplit city blocks
until we reached the river.
Was the water’s surface silver
before the shadow fell,
our figures bright
before they began to dim?
I can almost remember
the look of you
that night—before marriage,
before children,
wonder after wonder
and loss after loss.
I can almost see
the moonlight leave your face.
