The Aurora Recurs Now and Then

When I was a child a streetlamp
puddled a blotch of mellow gold
and the aurora borealis

swept the sky with greenish curtains.
I stashed these events in holes
in the back yard to unearth when

old age soured me on the senses.
Now I’m dry as heartwood and live
miles from my buried adventures.

How can I touch those dark places
and dig up a dash of vapor
I can still claim with the sight

of one eye? The night sifts icefall
through the naked parts of the trees.
Shapes form on the TV screen

but dissipate before I name them.
That streetlamp still casts shadows
where I first noticed it, and also

here in my yard a hundred miles
from the graves of my earliest friends.
The aurora recurs now and then,

but usually in shades of purple
too showy to excite me the way
that first green sighting did,

my senses fresh enough to thrill me
the entire length of my body
and down through my living roots.

By: William Doreski

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William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.