by James B. Nicola
A tornado will be more destructive butin the long run Night can be/has been/is crueler.A tornado dies so that one might rebuild;but Night retreats only to returnreminding me of one day’s tornadoand that you were not here last night, are nottonight, nor will be here tomorrow night. The lights of night—moons, half the time; stars, when the skies aren’t overcast; and neon—help me to forget the storm, some nights,but not you. And when I sight a new star,or pass a favorite spot that we once knew,a madness, bittersweet but gentle as the blanket of night, seems to fold me inits counterpane with Love’s imagination.When the comet came, that year afterthe storm, I couldn’t help but love the thingand give it a name, night after night. Your name. And when the weather tells of a tornadosomewhere, no matter how far it may be,I send out prayers to all the future stars.