The Seven Sisters And One Old Woman Poem by elysabeth faslund

Watchers of the skies, tonight, as always.
'Yes. Yes, pet, waters are troubled with
lilies. No wind...no sun. Lavender blooms.
Always these days in August. Quiet beauty.

She knew watchers, as herself.

'We will sit on the rocker. Cooler,
on the porch. This perch a treat.
Come, eat. Was easily caught.
Twilight curls fingers through air.

Nothing but the sky, moves tonight.'

Lifting ages' wrinkles, she peered up,
past cypress tops, to black beyond.
'They will come, pet. Wait with me.'
The cat pawed silver streaks on wood.

'No, pet, not those. Those. In the sky.

The Seven Sisters dance seven nights.
First of stars on cave walls. First stars
in all history, captured. Before the moon.
What magic spells their August dance? '

The cat pawed her dangling hand.
The cat curled on her lap.
The old woman's eyes, unblinking.
Shadow-watching the dance above.

As dawn crept, the cat looked back.
The old woman, in her rocker,
eyes open...
to stars gone.