poetry

ROWENA, AT CAMP LOOKOUT
by Edith L. Tiempo

It’s now a century, since
Keats heard the soft pipes play
A darkling tune,
Blowing and breathing
From cold marble stone.
Now the cold stars burn
Blue holes above this slope,
And she cries, “Old magic trick! That star’s
No more―its light
Is from a million years ago!”
The thought I render sotto voce
Is spoken to the past―
Another time, another place
Catapulting, star-like,
To this young girl on the slope,
That far child that she was,
Crying out (as now)
A startled praise:
(“A Look, a rambler rose-vine hung with bloom!”)
That past day flinging here, star-fashion,
So that finished rose and vanished star,
In a wondering cry,
Endure as one.

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