Just more words

Unfinished

In the years before the gods died
the earth spun slowly,
It was a detail he'd recall in his later years,
when the sky had blurred to faint arcing lights.

But in those early Falls, the stars  demanded notice.

On the warmest nights he'd count them, pixel-by-pixel,
from the front seat of a parked station wagon,
until the numbers picked a cadence for his dreams.

But he had lived too much since then to consider
whether he should wonder where they went.
Instead he gave his effort to the forgetting,
as he had much to forget.

There was the night the heavens kneeled
and with misdirected kindness, whispered,
"Go home. You are a man. The Gods have died."

And so he did. And so he was.
Too abashed for questions.

Had he been watching from the Ford
he would have noticed then
the long melancholic droplets converging
into rivulets racing sideways down the pane,
leaving him nothing to count.

But he wasn't watching.
In time, the comets were just a habit;
even their fecklessness went unnoticed.
No matter. In truth,
their final leave was concealed years before

in  Providence's passing...

~Mari Nichols

This was my contribution to  One Shot Wednesday, the Web's poetic flashmob.

Of course, I have a thick skin and constructive criticism is always welcome. As always, I encourage (read: beg for) all comments.