Northern Lights

Night, Ontario,
the boy lay on his back
in the field of freshly cut hay.
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.

by this hearth fire
he begins to whittle
an object:
a small windmill
the interstellar winds
might turn.

William Gilson’s poems have appeared most recently in Tears in the Fence, Other Poetry, and Red River Review. An American, Gilson now lives in England.