Having arrived as we slept, your intricate silence at dawn recalls the starry cataracts of vanished nightfall. The hush across the yard has spread like a glacial range before and after what changes. As I step off the porch, I reach into the tail end of your freefall. I bridge the air to just one flake, which melts off a fingertip. By evening, sunset’s bloomed bruise lingers in darkish purples glinted with ruddy reds over a landscape of mud puddles. I too am part of the aftermath. In my armchair after another decade, I can see still what has disappeared.
G. H. Mosson is the author of six poetry collections, including Family Snapshot as a Poem in Time (Finishing Line Press 2019), Questions of Fire (Plain View Press 2009), and Singing the Forge (David Robert Books 2025). His poetry has appeared widely, including in The Tampa Review, The Potomac Review, California Quarterly, and Smartish Pace. For more, seek www.ghmosson.com.