Comments about Joe Haldeman
Eighteen Years Old, October Eleventh
Drunk for the first time in her life,
she tossed her head in a horsey laugh
and that new opal gift sailed off her sore earlobe,
in a graceful parabola, pinged twice on the stone porch floor,
and rolled off to hide behind the rose bushes.
It gathered dust and silt for two centuries.
The mansion came down in a war.
For twelve thousand years
the opal hid in dark rubble, unmoving.
An arctic chill worked down through it, and deeper,
and glaciers pushed the rubble thousands of miles,
very fast, as opals measure time.
After millions of years (the Sun ...