Night Lines

It was the high Uintas,
evening of our first day-hike
with grandchildren . . . their lives until then
seeming distant, clustered and glowing
as the far Pleiades to our gazing.

In the darkening, away from city lights,
Orion’s bright belt embedded itself
in the peak of Mt. Nebo, conch-shell galaxies
wheeling the high-altitude sky.

States away now, I’ve walked out
from a quiet house into the present darkness.
Sensed through soles of my feet:
a network of roots . . . trees we planted
decades ago curving yard’s edge
with the faint scent of pale summer phlox
clustered like hazed moons under dogwoods.

Just evenings back, weren’t there
young voices lasting each summer dusk . . .
their hidings, their countings:
red light green light . . . run sheep run;
a sound of crickets enlarging
night’s deep lavender,
its slowed, expanding kingdoms?

Inside, with the switch of a desk lamp,
a sudden gloss of faces
beams from table top and walls:
the photo sheen of family
evolving . . . a faint and distant longevity
in the smiles of all our ages.