One 1986 in a Lifetime
The point of the trip to New Zealand
was Halley’s comet, that crisscross blaze
your great-grandfather saw in 1910,
his one story you inherited of light in the sky
from a time the tango was taking off.
You liked feeding chocolate eggs to deer at Easter
on the venison farm. You liked riding in the white van
and woke up gently to look over Mt. Cook at 4 am.
You were four. I was thirty-nine.
This was my only chance
to see this comet swipe cross midnight stars
and a still-solid glacier.
You, so young,
another chance in 2061 in a universe
I will never know.
Tricia Knoll is an Oregon poet whose aging hands continue to do work that fascinates her - writing haiku and poetry, digging holes for daffodils, brushing a dog, and peeling the skin off cooked beets. Her poetry collections include full-length book Ocean’s Laughter (Aldrich Press, 2016) and a chapbook Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Website: triciaknoll.com