The atmospheric conditions are right, I guess:
something at any rate has scattered stars
of frost beneath a late night’s cloudless sky.
They flare and vanish as I walk the lawn
behind the dog. Perhaps he smells starlight
hidden beneath the bushes; urgent sniffs
that pause to classify the gathered data
mean to a dog – that it must sniff some more.
I know the feeling. Deep within the brain,
primeval snorts and sortings still go on,
processing night. Its mysteries. Its fangs
sudden, bright and final. Nothing to fear
from neighbors’ lights or distant highway sounds,
except perhaps the brevity of stars
across the grass, the brittle flames that break
from even leaning slowly into a step,
shattered before the foot comes gently down.
But moments of the dew, the sky, are dense
as berries on the coming springtime bushes.
Harvest the moments, savor a certain grave
that gives the feast its flavor of just desserts.
JBMulligan has had more than 850 poems and stories published over the last 35 years, as well as two chapbooks, two e-books, and appearances in several anthologies.