On the day of the eclipse, he was well on his way when the sky darkened.
The first shadow was like a cloud across the sun, but the darkness grew.
He would never reach home in time to cast the dwindling image on a sheet
of paper, not with pin and glass still on the kitchen table. Darkness swelled.
The birds grew quiet. A chill breeze carried the wail of a distant siren, eerie
in noon twilight. Newscasters warned never to stare at the sun. Even a peek
at the shadow devouring light might blind, but he wanted to see darkness
make a moon of the sun. He walked beneath an oak, staring at the sidewalk,
and there, a festival of crescents flickered at his feet. Thousands of glittering
images of the sun refracted through living leaves, and his was a path through
the shifting shape of light as darkness plunges through the heart and emerges.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem