Poem by Tom Holmes
The Night of Friday, February 10, 2023
The stars are white tonight, Mars stains orange, and the green comet curves between. If lampposts did not shine, you could see it all. Instead, you’ll stream the ruined scene through your phone. Still birds melody and arise. Stray cats stride into backwoods and scream. A moon
drawing a baby basket disturbs this night. On the moon’s surface, alien letters. It drifts away like a cloudy after-thought. Those alien letters stray behind and flock like geese to derive the words that announce a sharp storm will not arrive. Pond sliders surface from the woods with starling eggs wobbling on their shells and ready to crack like the surface of frozen mud on the final day of winter. Tomorrow the daffodils blossom. I will boil them to broth to drink before I clear my throat and sing, “The stars are white…”
About Tom Holmes
For over 20 years, Tom Holmes has been the editor and curator of Redactions: Poetry & Poetics. Holmes is also the author of five full-length collections of poetry, including The Book of Incurable Dreams (forthcoming from Xavier Review Press) and The Cave, which won The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award for 2013, as well as four chapbooks.