Remembering the August Night

When I was nine we stayed out all night, My favorite uncle and I, on our little hill, Backs laid out on a mattress of thick orchard grass Warmed for us earlier in the day by the August sun, Eyes casting into the dazzling darkness of the Pleiades Awaiting the shower of fire Quick, unpredictable bursts spending All their energy and mass in half a second Leaving us stunned with nothing but a memory to hold. I still go to our little hill, lie back and breathe deep draughts Of the humid air – almost believing I can still catch A trace of my uncle’s old spice. But I no longer look for meteors. My more seasoned eyes and heart are tuned now To the constant grace of the constellations, Familiar forms moving steadily through whole seasons of life, Always there, ever true, just themselves.