Dust Particles Suspended in a Ray of Light —after a phrase from Steven Kowit

Who is to say it does not happen like this?

A gloomy day, a hard rain that drives against
the weather-beaten boards, the drafty panes. And
the mother, cleaning and canning in the kitchen,
quietly watches the fork lightning stabbing
and stabbing the well-turned earth outside until
its juices flow.

Her two boys, bored, are heading to the attic
to spend the afternoon. A long room, its lone
window at the peak a surly gray. It holds
the old familiar trunks, the trains; the ratty
comics and the checks in boxes lying still
amidst the dust.

Time passes. Just when an ancient Polaroid
is found with one shot left, the sun shoots out a
sudden celebratory flare. And in the
golden rays of the dusty room, small worlds are
held suspended for a moment, hovering
and unaware.

One boy decides to take a picture of them.
But when he does, he also gets his brother’s
blurry face. He takes the still-developing
instant to his mother, who squints before she
tapes it to the fridge. “It needs a caption, son.
What shall it be?”

The Universe, he scrawls. And the tape lets go.

Eidolon

Sometimes I think I see you standing there—
standing, at the end of my bed, your hand
clutching your kerchief dotted with red, your bent
cry into its creases a silent curse,
a slight smile that reappears a moment
later, twinkling through the motes of dust
illuminated by the midday sun.

John, we were always destined to be
like this: To be delighted in the word
wrought fine, the thought made pure,
Parnassus but a temporary height.
We are transients in a world of so
much temporary light, the wonder is
our words outlast our temporary souls.