Sherry Chandler » Two Years Tomorrow
Two Years Tomorrow
Sunday Night Before the War
From the driveway, I could see his light,
a single candle in a wrought-iron vine
that curled a fantasy into flower,
white taper for a stigma.
I joined him in his watch on the front step
as clouds rushed east across a moon
two days off full,
first shirt-sleeve night of spring.
We talked about the wren he’d seen at nest,
who’d won the pitch game at my mother’s,
and tried to coax the long-haired tom
away from open flame.
A milky drop splashed on the iron vine,
spider, new-hatched surely, timed
like that day’s daffodils
to catch the new-hatched bees.
Light, heat, or affinity drew her, white
to white. She started down the stem, backed up,
went on, wedged herself into the crack
between metal and wax.
Turned somehow in that tiny space,
she began to climb again just
as a stream of molten wax dripped down.
We blew the light out and went inside.
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