Three in the morning, I stand on sidewalk, under street lamp, looking for 1638, the last lunar eclipse to appear in the winter solstice sky. All that day I imagined English peasants, French haystacks, Dutch tidal pools, heard the distant clang of Swedish sleigh bells as revelers took advantage of a moonlit evening to visit distant cousins and exchange what was needed for what was not, the way I sometimes look at my lover, weighing her gifts.
“Was it there?”
(after Mary Oliver)
If I am good enough to suffer
If I am good enough for all this