Poem by Anne Brudevold

Photo by Bill Perrault



Northern Lights

If we were in the sky, we would be undone
but tonight we lie in the backyard in our aluminum lawn chairs
we cover ourselves with blankets and gaze at the big screen overhead
we are dizzy, stoned by sky.
We call the radio. Yes, it is the Northern Lights
in Woodstock, New York. zig zag white lines, crazy tie-dye midnight sky
stars seem torn apart, they dart everywhere, hyperactive.
The air is so electric it prickles our skin
our hair stands on end
and because our senses can not keep pace,
we are off kilter; ungrounded
earth is not solid; we can’t rely on it
we are pathetically periphereral to the center of the universe,
we’re just a tiny channel
with nothing important to say.
So we drink lemonade. Nothing else makes sense.
The sky shakes us to most intimate silence
We don’t even need to watch anymore
the show has penetrated our eyelids,
gone cellular. We’ll let the big networks beyond
turn winding cloths around our bodies;
while, on local weather, we are grateful
that at ground level, a warm wind
binds us in temporary August silk