At eighteen, I had lived much
less than a blink of an eye.
The Earth, moon and sun were
four and a half billion years old,
give or take fifty or a hundred
million years.

I felt small and fleeting that
March day when the moon
slowly crossed the disc of the
sun, holding for a while (it
seemed) at center.

Gradually the day had become
darker, until the time of
totality. At first the birds
flew and chirped to their
nests – the day was ending –
and then they flew and
chirped as the sun began to
emerge, bringing a second day
in one.

I wondered what they thought
of the phenomenon; perhaps
just a day cut short and a
return to day. Perhaps their
midday night-and-day was the
subject of their singing; maybe
they gathered in wonder for
conversation about what had
happened.

And how did those of us watching
react? With awe at what the laws
of astrophysics can create. And,
perhaps, at something else.

 

Marsha’s poems have been published in The Moon issue of The Black and White series, the American Journal of Nursing, and Waves (AROHO). As a senior at Wellesley, Marsha won the college’s Academy of American Poets prize. She also had the privilege of studying with David Ferry and Frank Bidart.