Night Falls - Day Breaks

Bernadine Lortis

Night falls ~
summer sky
fiery red-orange fan pleats the black water
mirrors school of bass synchronized to inaudible music
echoes lines of liquid beauty that part the surface
with a delicate comb; my view interrupted
by trees’ silhouette and Dad’s form bending
over the dock, reaching for something he needs
—an anchor—missing in his life since Mother
abandoned him, us, long before I realized why.



Day breaks ~
winter sky
flesh colored hope like a newborn’s arrival
nearly obscures the moon—pale cellophane slice—
an insomniac like me. In the hush of dawn
skinny bark fingers clutch snowballs in opened fists as
husky cello voices call out amid the scrape of shovels
and brushed cars emerge from mounded jelly-bean shapes
while a cardinal sings its true color. I make a pot of coffee
to stay awake till Dad stumbles down for breakfast
company, till I fade again into my Mother’s face,
light growing dimmer each day as sun rises to its zenith.