Eclipse
By Patrick T. Reardon
Credit: NASA Kegan Barber
The afternoon of the solar
eclipse feels like bright Good
Friday. I have no desire to
look at the sun disappearing
behind the moon, appearing,
and no one in McDonald’s shows
any interest in the movement
of celestial bodies, an act of
Nature or, if you will, an act of
God, like the earthquake growl
or wild-shout tornado, but one
easy enough to calculate and
announce and, in this small way,
control. On that other day, the
Sun died and was reborn
although there is no way to
calculate, no way to prove
— what is faith? — no light at
the end of the tunnel until you
get there, and then what? The
sun goes down and reappears,
the flower dies and another
blooms, my bones to dust to
mud to soil. Outside this window,
birds cheep and chirrup on the
branch touching the wall of
bricks, each brick a work of
beauty, as each bird, each
flower, each sun in the endless
Cosmos. My back is stiff. At
another window, the little boy
looks down the street for a truck
heading east and watches it go
past and waits with delight
for another.
Patrick T. Reardon
10.22.24
This poem originally appeared in Spare Parts Volume 9 on 10.1.24.
Written by : Patrick T. Reardon
For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.