By geography’s whim,
we stood in the moon’s bold path—
no jostling crowds, no weary miles,
just a step into the backyard’s hush,
armed with two-dollar glasses.
Two minutes of totality,
a solar swan dive into darkness.
And then, as swiftly as it came,
the extraordinary collapsed into ordinary.
Day, briefly torn
by the audacity of satellite and sun,
stitched itself whole.
We returned to work, to school,
as if midnight hadn’t just kissed the sky at noon.
Once, such an omen
stilled the clash of swords,
sent kings to their knees,
drove the faithful to prayer.
Now, a flicker in passing,
a brief rupture, smoothed by dusk,
slipping quiet into memory.
This poem was obviously inspired by the eclipse, but it also draws from a New York Times article about the Battle of Halys and the evocative verse from Bob Dylan’s song, “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)”: Darkness at the break of noon/Shadows even the silver spoon/The handmade blade, the child’s balloon/Eclipses both the sun and moon/To understand you know too soon/There is no sense in trying.
The Truth About Tigers 