Joy

ERIK OSTERBERG

What startles is vast

quiet quieting

thoughts to only now.

Following my breath

to the warming house,

old dull-bladed skates

hanging from my neck,

I cross angled beams

of street lights lit by

snow. Out of the hush,

children’s cries; a puck

knocks against a board.

Only now. And here

I am as I am

lost in the night sky

face up and falling

into stars of flakes,

eyelashes holding 

(with such a light touch)

every crystal like 

a holy relic

for as long as I--

for as long as I

can keep from blinking.