Reflections

Midnight at midsummer,
the sun hides behind
the northern horizon.
The sky, pale blue
to my dark-adapted eyes
reflects in the still waters
beyond the dike.

Last year I sat here too
grieving for you,
finding solace in solitude
as noctilucent clouds hovered
in the distance.
It was my very first glimpse
of their ephemeral forms.

Two days earlier I last saw you,
still trapped within that fragile shell,
still held together by a skin turned brittle.

We had tea in the garden,
talked about old times,
about your kids and mine,
about their future plans,
and your pain, and the illness
you held at bay for so long.

You never complained.

I fixed your son's telescope,
it was the least I could do.
I finally said farewell,
kissing your forehead gingerly,
fearing something might break,
and took my leave.

When the news came,
I drove to this dike,
and sat, and reflected,
and watched those gossamer threads in the sky,
soaring high above our troubles
on the very edge of space.
I imagined them your spirit,
released from a body at war with itself.

My inner scientist smiled,
and allowed me that cold comfort.

Tonight they are out in force again.
A far grander display than I have ever seen,
a moving pattern of light reflected
off ice-encrusted meteor dust.
A shimmering veil stretching
from zenith to horizon,
its shifting shape mirrored
in the still waters below me.

This should have been your shroud.

Sitting still on this dike,
I am glad my orbit
was briefly entwined
with that complex, swift path,
that twisting course through space-time
that is forever you.