Sun, earth, and moon aligned tonight
in crystal winter cold—first teasing us,
the sun descending in a rose farewell,
the moon in coppery fullness rising
from the river, just beyond the bridges,
hanging for an hour among the lights,
then creeping toward its rendezvous.
The way the soft penumbra lessens

makes me think of time, unnoticed
nearly, till one see that it is waning;
so the moon appears, as if its edge
were etched by acid, nibbled evenly.
As the silver disc ascends to zenith,
I must circle with it, changing places
at the windows, pivoting, and finally
kneeling by the glass—to see the half-

moon, then quarter, then a solitary
slice; and I, a poet and a lunar spirit,
frenzied with the spectacle, imagine
how a mortal felt his flesh turn cold
with fright, to see the heavenly lamp
extinguished, as the angels chattered
in anticipation of renascent light. it’s
done: Diana is eclipsed. “Come now,”

I beckon to my cat, who does not seem
excited, being a philosopher. “I’ve had
enough of cosmic comedy. The actors
must be tired. Goodnight! Our minds
are well aligned; our dreams will play
in a proscenium with suns and planets
tumbling on the shadows, juggling stars,
laughing all the way to God’s own stage.”

Catharine Savage Brosman
from her book The Muscled Truce
Louisiana State University Press, 2003
used with permission of the poet
and with special permission of LSU Press

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