by Dick Westheimer
after the reading of "The Hill We Climb”
Your sons and daughters shall prophesy;
Your old shall dream dreams,
And your youth shall see visions.
Joel 3:1
The poet shown like a nova, a new star rising from the dais,
She spoke brilliance that rivaled the light that streamed through
the parting clouds, but like any sun, could not see the shadows
cast by her own bright light—only the glow on the faces
of a nation reflected back to her as she rose fierce and lyrical.
Most of the elders gathered there—like lunar satellites
in a sky of her making—were made luminous by her,
reflected on her words, were dazzled by what she saw.
Others, blind to her light, heard only
the cawing of the crows nested in their heads.
The wise ones there knew all about the casting of shadows.
Some had even traded in darkness—had forged troubled unions
of dark and light. But they knew this Black star before them
was Antares to their lurking Ares. In that moment they felt
that this night’s moon, bathed in her corona, could make them
brave enough to face what lurks in the penumbral places.
Dick Westheimer writes poetry to makes sense of the world—which is made easier by the company of his wife of 40 years, and the plot of land they’ve worked together for all of those years. His poems have appeared in Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel, For a Better World, and Riparian.
