Waning Gibbous

Storms again.
A hanging
cable writhes
too snakelike.
Bare black
walnut branches
wobble.
The word
of the week,
the season,
the presidency.
It has something
to do with the sky,
by all accounts.
As above, so
below. We live
on just one arm
of the fractal,
they say.
But there are
glimpses,
like Dad waking
you and your
sisters up
in the middle
of the night
and marching you
out to a dirt road
in the northern
latitudes with
orders to look up.
You saw a soft
white scarf
slung over the dark
shoulders
of the night.
And that’s our
galaxy.
Shearling Way,
Silken Way,
Cotton Way.
No use crying
over the wonders
of the cosmos.
What to feel,
then? Not quite
awe, not a dream
within a dream,
not only cranky
from being
yanked from
sleep, but
something like
alignment.
The compass
snapping north.
You saw a piece
of the path
you were on.
That you’d run
from this dirt
road and travel
to distant
stations.
The seasons
would spill,
the years
stack up
like bangles
then spiral
back around
when the light
slants at a
certain angle,
when gardenia
conjures your
play perfume,
when an old
song crackles
through
the radio
and swears
it saw the sky
break.