The sun is sliding off its track,
making its way
to a planet with more promise,

its once airbrushed dusks
now indifferent middle grays–
Mondays, Thursdays.

Alone on my hill
my breath alarms me.
Did it sound like that, before?

I try to look up
to call to the North Star
to get me out of here

but my eye falls like a spent balloon
to the glowing window
at the bottom of the hill.

A shape is bent over her work,
hands on her head
as she considers the impossible–

the collapse passes under her nose
glowing tolls and tallies among
grinning hearts and hashtags.

She looks up.
I am still.
I want to wave.

She pauses.
I want to know
I am not a ghost

but she returns to her screen
hands propping her head again
like a Dali crutch.

I look to the North Star
but there is nowhere to go
and no one can read a sextant here.

– Teresa Kiplinger

See the brooch I created that was inspired by this poem.

Photo: Tim Foster

Leave a comment

Please note, comments must be approved before they are published