Over the office building
rising across the street
from my parents’ house
in the warm August night
Mars comes as close
as I shall see it.
Not knowing much
about stars and planets
I have loved them:
that Pluto’s called Pluto
to fix in the night sky
the initials of Percival Lowell.
And now here’s Mars
just west of the street light,
bright enough even my father
shading his cataracts
with his left hand
can see it plain.
Heaven, upon
and above us
sends messengers
composedly, rarely.
In their never hurrying
their dignity is made known.
Standing by the screen door
my mother, father and I
come close together
sharing that steady light
not one of us will see
so near again.
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