by Delia Garigan
In that beautiful moment —
as the cranberries burst
their clear crumpled clamshell, go shooting
[radially, radiant, spoked and speechless]
along the ground —
as they hang in frozen perfection, downward-bound:
here I am. Riding the chilly glare on Sand Hill Road
in backpack and helmet. The impact —
not falling but flung — propels a serene arc.
In that crackled momentary thought, I knew: This
[my shoes seared into brilliant sky]
might be the last thing.
Then the berries strike and time — the string of moments —
recollects and rights itself. Each reddened pixel
resolves, turns around — rolls on.