Too late, I saw the clock and checked online
and went outside but ... nothing.
First quarter moon (the only time a quarter
is a half) winked brightly in derision,
aware my sky was blocked by
houses and by trees. The boys came out
to catch a glimpse. I felt a bit to blame
that they, as well, had failed to see the
Great Conjunction, two gods who bowed
together on their orbits, the same who lead
two thousand years ago and more
the way (some scholars say) for the camel-riding
caravan that hoped to find a king.
I missed it not because I lacked the knowledge,
nor because, more pious still, I spent too long
in prayer. I was not lost within the pages
of a weighty book or speaking words of wisdom
to a friend in need. I wasn't making love,
or making dinner or a gift, any one of which
would be a just excuse when speaking of
a grand event so missed, this spectacle that
never, in my lifetime, will appear again.
(I suppose it's possible I'll live another sixty
years, but that's unlikely even though I
never smoked.) Inside the house, the dishes
needed to be put away. The counters cleaned.
While history was made above the roof,
I swept the floor and mopped and went
inside my room to check my phone to see
if I had missed a text. And only then, I realized.
How often has it happened, some great
opportunity nearby I missed, two planets
lining up one solitary time while I drew
breath, but I was in the kitchen
when I should have been beneath the sky,
my arms outstretched, one word disturbing
neighbors as I yelled it: Yes.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2020
