Here’s to little eclipses,
that change us every hour,
behind cirrus clouds wrapped
in eyelid veils. Look directly there
and all blind bets are off.
Don’t pitch on vast skyscapes
of full eclipse; let little ones
paint the vistas of the soul instead,
a hundred times a day.
Your feathers can’t moult enough,
nor conceal heavenly bodies ’til you’re ready.
After the eclipse comes a return to life.