Bright in the pre-dawn sky, just
to the right of the Geddes’s tall oak
as I bend for the morning paper—
and in the evening hanging over
the wide street to the west—it
is not a stalled plane, meteorite,
pulsing star, or sun with its own
spinning system, but a reflector,
mirror in the neighborhood, a planet
out for its own fling. It’s not that
I want to go there or that if I did
I would go out in fiery glory
or find its miasmic clouds a cover
for the day’s work. It isn’t even
always there, playing hide-and-seek
with the tilting earth, now left,
right, low, high, dim, or starkly bright
as circling seasons come and go.
Its beam is hope, surviving the dark
west to appear before dawn
just to the right of the Geddes’s
tall oak, a promise of light, springtime,
summer’s heat, harvest, faithful return
in an uncertain world.
Retired after teaching writing and literature for four decades in Alabama community colleges, Harry Moore lives with his wife, Cassandra, in Albany Historic District in Decatur, Alabama–where tall oaks, yapping dogs, and familiar birds and weeds remind him of the farm he grew up on.