That Narrow Space

Heather Holland

The smoky sunset darkens. Lights come on
and stars are strung like Chinese lanterns–red
and yellow, fading, always out of reach.
A single lonely bird floats down from trees
 
and stars are strung like Chinese lanterns. Red,
I question, break with sharp and broken cries.
A single lonely bird floats down from trees,
sweeps up again into the paling sky.
 
I question, break with sharp and broken cries.
There is a sudden hush. A breathless pause
sweeps up again into the paling sky
where people say there isn’t any meaning.
 
There is a sudden hush, a breathless pause
between the lightning and the crash, a space
where people say there isn’t any. Meaning
is surging there. A note, a whimper cuts
 
between the lightning and the crash–a space
all yellow, fading, always out of reach.
It’s surging. There a note, a whimper cuts
through smoky sunset, darkens lights come on.

Glasgow, Ellen. In This Our Life. New York: Harcourt Brace and Company, 1941.


Heather Holland lives near a river in Provo, Utah with her five spirited children. She loves hiking, backpacking, yoga, existentialism, trees, birds, and raspberries. Her poetry chapbook, Mastering the Art of Joy, was published by NFSPS in 2011 as winner of the Edna Meudt Memorial Award and her writing has been published in The Found Poetry Review, Segullah, Encore, Touchstones, Essias, Panorama, and Warp & Weave.

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