Aurora, by Joseph N. HallNow the snow
ticking the gray quiet
of bare boughs,
whiteness imperceptibly
forgetting what we knew:
fallen leaves, a footprint
frozen in mud.

The tiny crystal
that burns and weeps my cheek
is that vast geometry
of worlds and suns
spinning the elegant, inevitable
idiocy of ellipse
from perigee to apogee,

so that this is how it must be:
not truth, desire, philosophy,
but the random reason
of bodies in a motion
not their own, thrown
by what spark
of a volatile complacency

into this all-day twilight,
the steady, blank accumulation,
the cramp of cold, the golden
glow from warm windows
as I turn away down a long,
lone road in a wordless wood
to where it bends and vanishes.

And then? Back again?
Beyond what we imagine,
by a senseless, circular calculation,
although nothing's certain,
where deep dreams melt, a new
and strange green grass
may flame through dead ribs.

Copyright © 2006, Eric Gadzinski

Image Credit: Copyright © 2005, Joseph N. Hall, some rights reserved

Eric Gadzinski teaches English at Lake Superior State University in Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan. His poetry has appeared in a variety of journals. Selections of his work are available in three chapbooks: X, Lotus Eater, and Sweetgrass.