Eclipsed
The way people stood there,
side by side,
watching that ball of dark
roll over the sky and crash into the sun,
the way they just stood there,
struck numb.
How some then cried out in wonder
while others
just cried,
the way we might when life leaves the world
behind, and only
wordless things remain.
They knew
all about the moon and sun
holding the same place
in space,
all about the when and where, but still
didn’t really know
the who,
until they, one by one, remembered
other times
when dark had rolled across their beams.
How it took the shine and left behind
a dim and lonely cast.
How the sun stayed firm in the sky,
though luster faded and blossoms closed.
How chilled they had felt,
believing light might never
return,
until a slice peeked out
to touch
their cheeks again.
KIRSTEN MORGAN writes poetry and memoir in Denver when she isn’t hiking or snowshoeing in the nearby mountains. A graduate of Lighthouse Writers Poetry Book Project, she has recently completed her first manuscript and is hard at work on her second, along with several chapbooks. Her poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in The Human Touch Journal, Gyroscope, and 3Elements Review. She is editor of One Day, One Night at a Time: Women Write of Poverty, Homelessness and Hope, a book that arose from ten years of teaching a weekly writing class at a women’s day shelter. She is also a Master Facilitator of poetry and memoir for the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute through the University of Denver. She writes poetry at stop signs, on napkins and, in a pinch, on her hands.
Twyckenham Notes 