on the world's rim

"A Star" 

Beauty was that
Far vanished flame,
Call it a star
Wanting better name.

And gaze and gaze
Vaguely until
Nothing is left
Save a grey ghost-hill.

Here wait I
On the world's rim
Stretching out hands
To Seraphim. 

--Patrick Kavanagh

These are the nights: cold and brutal, when the day's winds have died down and we wait for clouds to part and reveal a winter sky; often conditions could become perfect and a stillness lay thick and dark in the night, and in the sky, and on my heart--heavy and present, a hand pressing into my chest. Be still, my child, it seemed to say. And I was. I taught statues; motionless as a child hiding in a game. I sat and numbed, my exposed skin reddening--my nose and ears. Chill would creep into my joints. The game I played at was something about stars, finding them on those perfect nights. And now I am gone from the farm and the country-quiet nights where the stillness is tangible. And tonight I am wishing for one of those nights again.