All You Shining Stars, A Poem

Bethany Beach, Delaware.

Farm-themed b-day party.

Teddy, Hannah and Morgan at their elementary school.

Triplets plus one.

I read “All You Shining Stars” by Christian Wiman in the December 23, 2019 issue of The New Yorker, and the poem was illuminated by my four shining stars.

All You Shining Stars 

Three kinds of hair in the brush one love

has left on the kitchen counter.

Four kinds of cries when it occurs as one

to blow off school and go to the mountains.

And later, over the river, when the upturned duck

never turns over, five kinds of silence.

 

Always our elsewheres are also here,

like tributaries so intuitive they seem

almost incidentally literal, tiny trickles

in wildernesses too immense to enter,

the cold clefts and the drastic drops.

cliffs of unthinkable ice.

 

Three kinds of sleep in the hum home

down the dark valley back to New Haven.

Four kinds of dreams behind the headlights,

the world springing into being ten feet at a time.

Five kinds of time when one love wakes up

and wonders where we are, and one wonder

wakes up another, and another, and another.