Eclipsed
Confession: I steal a glance through cloud cover.
I see the shadow of God’s shoulder
crescent the sun.
New spring leaves reflect their unison
light, turn the air green for days.
Sparse and pensive birdsong unbraids
and flaps its solos in the breeze.
One might think a storm is coming
as white cloud cover with gray underbelly
slides across the sky. Pinholes of blue,
like my shadow box, reveal little.
Though the ophthalmologist says they’re fine,
four days later, my eyes are still aching.
Rachel Landrum Crumble is a life-long poet, fledgling fiction writer, and retired teacher, having taught kindergarten through college. She has published in The Porter House Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Common Ground Review, Poetry Breakfast, Humans of the World, among others. Sister Sorrow (Finishing Line Press) is her first book. She lives with her husband of 43 years, a jazz drummer, and near two of her adult children and three grandchildren. Find her staring out the window, singing or on Substack or at poetteachermom.com.
Amethyst Review 