New under the Sun

One could say in this night sky can be seen the birth of stars, but who can tell in the stellar dust what’s coming to light or leaving? The shape of that dim nebula is like pale shadows we celebrate in my daughter’s womb: discernible fingers and hand, the faint umbilical reach toward connection.

I have thought these things during routine tasks—shaking a tablecloth in the night yard, washing dishes, sweeping. In the dailiness of the living, the mind leaps, say, at the glint of a glass, the sudsy water, or dust motes that join something past to this moment— like the blind stitch that holds the hem.

Our grown daughter’s voice reaches me from across a room, and I feel salt behind the eyes. Out of tones of a family gathering: a sudden perception of what a memory weighs. How I’ve kept a face not seen for months safe from time and strain, eyes clear and intense. How my son’s jump from a tree years ago with an open umbrella— of which I’ve just learned—occurs not then but now: I see his staunch curiosity poised on the branch, simultaneous with my smile at one more experiment survived beyond my knowing.

The sunmelt of days sears to these moments . . . but what rises in the heart is light.