Poetry: From the January/February 2008 issue | See all poetry
Northern Lights
Night, Ontario,
the boy lay on his back
in the field of freshly cut hay.
Light
lifted his body.
Swung it sideways.
Pulled it nearly to the farthest stars.
Then rolled a wheel
so wide, so thick
he felt his chest
could break.
Years passed.
Six decades, seven,
what luck allowed, a body
whole but patched.
Tonight
by this hearth fire
he begins to whittle
an object:
a small windmill
the interstellar winds
might turn.
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