Clairvoyancing Continued

My aunt’s name wasn’t Samara either.

Clairvoyancing July 20, 1963

The highly wrought baroque curves of the Bentwood
oscillate in balanced, almost seasonal,
geometry as Aunt Samara sways
beneath the darkening the coronal
eclipse is covering the earth in, lit
by just that circular indefinite

aurora formed around the lunar specter
come aground. And then Samara stops.
Startled by this unexpected pause
I turn from my science pursuits; the filter drops.
I watch Samara put her hand to her mouth
and look to something she espies in the south.

And maybe some day I’ll send poems out for publication again. I was having some luck there. But for now, I’m not ready. Again.