Bruce Tindall

The stars flew up so long ago
no one remembers what they are.
Their children, left behind in the woods,
come out only to the edge,
only in summer, as tentative
as field mice after an owl-fright.
"Come back for us," they flash, pale green
and cold; bright white and blue and cold
the stars twinkle in the old speech
no one remembers, and set and rise
but never return, as if they couldn't.

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