Aurora

a poem

Tuesday night, and I heard on the radio that we might see the northern lights. If only, I think, but I venture onto my suburban street at eight PM. The LED streetlights, the early Christmas decorations, my own certainty that good things are not mine to grasp – it’s too much. No heavenly light can compete with an earth that considers itself illuminated. But my eyes work harder than my judgment, and I see pink. Faint, but I stop and crane my neck up, up to try and find where it ends. As soon as I register the wonder, it starts to fade. I sigh, and turn away, and take a few steps towards home. But because I can’t lose hope, I look back. And there’s a beam of rosy light dancing in the air, piercing a feathery green veil, both flowing and pulsing like ocean currents. All above the streetlights, and parked cars, and scrubby trees watered by sprinklers. A shooting star streaks across it all, and I want to cry for hours, days. It’s all up there, and it’s all here. I want to reach out, for fear that it won’t touch me first. I want to kiss that radio host who was just doing his job. I want to see the sky every night.