We
make a rumpled queue behind the telescope
each
of us alone for our allotted seconds
to
squint out a mystery afloat in our eye,
Jupiter’s rings and four of its moons.
We
look up to see our own moon
ascend
through the trees
and
we think, chariot, but when we peer
more
closely, we see what is alien and still
and
that it is we who travel an arc.
My
father takes his turn with the moon
then turns
and studies all of us
glimmering
in the deep winter night,
passing
in orbit through the sweet lens
of his remembrance.
