for the sisters Jacobson
This August a complete restoration, a blue moon.
It hesitates when it sees all of us
gathered here, watching. What can I do,
it says, but simply rise —
The day was so fair, so blond,
and the great lake becalmed, inviting
a hardy swimmer and his dog.
Inside the body the heart throbbed
like an engine of Swedish manufacture,
strong enough for a second lifetime.
A single cloud made the sky seem bluer,
one cloud against such odds.
True, we seldom see a day so unblemished,
so childish, so soon over.
Let us meet on the rocky shore
to ask this rare, self-conscious moon
to intercede on our behalf.
The lake lifts and sinks
like a sleeping father’s chest, so gently
that small craft venture forth.
The stars, too, sense no danger in the heavens.
Our small fire burns only the sticks we give it;
we have that much control.
The moon returns with no assurances
but spreads a little light on the footpath.