Improv 2, Week 6

The First Star
-John Poch

There are no paperwhites on the meadow edge
this time of year; only snow that shimmers
like paperwhite petals in the farewell window
of March's postponed clemency, dune-blown
with skirt-pretty ripples. Like someone cared.
Why come out here and think of paperwhites
bent toward a window with their clustered cups
of six-tricks listening when half a dozen deer
stand prey-still on the valley's facing hill?
The sound of my own voice substitutes
for the voice of God. Here I am. And of course,
the sudden windscatter on snow like sand.
A few maples clacking. The day dies,
and an invisible coydog pack descends
on the fawn of my optimism. The first star
hovers out of nowhere. For courage's sake,
I think it real as a blown flag shadow.
But it could be the spark in air at the end
of a whip on the back of a nightmare.

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There are no paperwhites on the meadow edge,
nor do margins of gold hold wheat
as well as hands--in their lack of volume,
they still manage to cup just as any other bucket.
When the shimmers of petals bid farewell
to ripples and become drops of meadow,
postponed in sand along the edge
of the forest’s windows,
someone will manage to capture it all
in a photograph. Of course, the trick of hands
is that they only descend To full depth
when the first star takes position
in the basin Of sky above optimism,
somewhere before the first flash.
Trick photography dies with the sound
of its own voice,Which is to say
that it never dies only recedes in popularity.