Eclipse of the Moon by Mary Susanah Robbins - HTML preview

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Ferns through a blue jar

glass, highlighted, deep

as winter cold, shining soft

as vision's Christmas festival.

To describe this house, the straight-

nailed angles, minimal but important

molding, all that pain that holds

memories together — to describe this dream

only because it is more painful than

living — wine, butter, flowers; to enunciate

once again the pain of hammers

driving home connecting spars;

building a house where experience

changes as often as returning, finding

the same dry smell, the prickling cold;

to describe wrenching and remorse,

the misdirected nail, is nothing,

is poison or physic, taken daily

or in homecomings — is nothing

where the powdering fern and the dimmed-

as-heaven blue transparency

say to eyes, say to the house, say

to the owner of pain-construction,

why have you not seen? Was it

too hard? too hard to love?

how did you find me?


And, in the manger seen through

blue glass, dim forms, faraway

lands of a smaller dream,

perfected and unreachable save by

this moment's light, shepherds ask,

have we seen? we bring something to a star,

something to the only miracle our world

was prepared for, we bring gifts

because we heard an angel, and one doesn't

see angels much in these parts. Besides,

the crops were good this year — why not

take something along in thanks for the vision,

at least.


And in the manger

a child through a clouded window

sees ferns, solid and bending, against the blue.

Do we have clearer eyes, seeing

Before any celebration or birth, far lands,

gifts? Or is it only that in this house,

in the cowshed, in the shepherd's hut, some

musical mysterious home-light silvers

the bright and awful dream of day to day?


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