by Lawrence J. J. Leonard
In front of us the sun is going down, behind the end of the field.
The moon, as round as a basketball, slips between us and the sun.
Now all that is left is a banana shaped piece of the sun as yellow as a sour lemon.
A tomato ketchup plop of mist oozes high over some French fry clouds.
The other shapes and things and shadows I see are cold frying-pan black.
Hear a continuing squeaking? It’s just a distant windmill, its face to the breeze.
The hot air won’t let it stop,
a force that cannot rest this night of the eclipse.
The wind smears peanut butter red into the brown toast sky
The horizon pushes its grandmother arm onto Earth forcing it away from the sun.
Luna slowly squeezes between us and the sun,
maneuvering the same way you manage your hand between my hands when we pray.
The field before us is as bumpy as your bedspread.
Brush and grass and weeds stand as monuments to this place.
No one knows just how brilliant this all seems, except maybe you.
The sour lemon sun with its banana shaped radiance
is not a familiar memory for me and my working eyes.
Though you cannot see, you understand more clearly what is in front of us.
Copyright © 1960-2015 Lawrence J. J. Leonard All rights reserved.