Unexpected Banquet

By Roy Doughty
Written November 19th, 2007

In winter, at the light-withered end
Of the year, two hours before sunrise,
When the stars are few and frozen in their places,
And the insect hum has ceased, the bird twitter
Hushed, we find a silence like this, a palpable
Enclosure, and we realize how the turbulence,
Which plagued us, was born from an inner process,
How the harvest of misery, which we fear must
Sustain us in the coming months, has been the bounty
Of a spring and summer of frenetic growth,
All tares, no grain, no fruit. We look at the stars
Once more. Perhaps they have moved a little,
Sliding their fractures stealthily under the sky’s black ice.
Perhaps the ultimate parent has planted
And harvested something different in us,
In this silence, something other than desolation and void.
Perhaps our noise has been perfecting itself
In the turbulence, gathering sugars against
The winter, so that now, in an hour, perhaps, at most,
We will see the arrival of an impossible harvest,
And the black ice, with its chips of sterile stars,
Will crash into the round roar of the sun.

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