Amy Gordon
Sunset
As I stood by the oak tree, the sun moved across the sky,
turning day to night. A perfect stripe of pink held my attention
until three crows flew down, perched on the fence. The farmer
called the sheep from pastures, the cows were called to barns.
Strands of wool caught in wire knots whispered in the breeze,
told me tales of olden days when women sat at home. They
knitted socks for sailor men, didn’t believe the earth was round.
Even now, who can believe this stolid earth is round? And then
the light went out. Sky hardened into blackness, the sort of black
you sometimes see in the eyes of homeless men. A damp, cool hand
pressed against my neck. This was the first time I had been alone
under a night sky in a long time. Where were the stars? The moon?
Only worms rustled in the leaves. The planet tilted, stopped, turned
on its axis, reversed direction. Birds in branches above me groaned,
devolving into dinosaurs. The oak tree shed its bark, a giant fern
unfolded from its core, and I could smell the sea lapping up the miles
on salty feet. By morning I knew I would be extinct. I began to run.
How I wanted to see you one last time, and now, and now I bury
my face into the lanolin scratch of your sweater. Wool is the most
reassuring of all earth’s gifts.
Amy Gordon is a writer of children’s and young adult books, and continues to seek (“Don’t follow in the footsteps of the old poets, seek what they sought.” Basho) Her poetry has appeared in The Massachusetts Review and Aurorean. She lives in western Massachusetts.
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