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The Moon of Ullum
Beneath the car
the pavement bids us farewell,
and we are borne over the dam that holds the river prisoner,
forces the current to abandon its merry tumble to the sea.
Above us the moon, almost full, yet still white and apathetic,
follows us from a sky without color.
Silence surrounds us: we do not look at each other.
Your eyes are fixed on the horizon,.
Your hands - those hands I know so well-
are firm on the steering wheel.
Your words continue to ring in my memory…
Inside my purse, my fingers caress the cold promise
of the 38 revolver.
To our left huge heaps of red clay, worn down, wrinkled,
fragile and at the same time imposing,
loom over us in sterile majesty.
To our right the Valley of Ullum opens,
the San Juan river a sad thread that flows
at the base of more clay mountains
gutted by antique waters, endlessly consumed
by the unforgiving winds of the Zonda.
We leave the moon behind us and turn onto a rutted trail,
at the other side of the two-lane highway.
Now we are herded between desolate heights
and an immense dark lake appears before us
surrounded by battered prominences without plants or trees.
The silhouette of a lone bird floats
near the denuded beaches
at the base of steep banks.
Solitary, isolated, we leave the car
to observe how the sun struggles
against the melancholy of the moon,
sinking into the rust-tinged lake
with bursts of scarlet and diamond-bright reflections,
touching the little waves of the opaque water
with silver sparks
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Alone, saddened, I drive back toward the city of San Juan,
my hands firm on the steering wheel.
The moon struts across the dull firmament,
a splendid circle of antique gold.
For the last time she escorts me past the Valley of Ullum
where I have buried my heart
beneath a friable tower
of red clay.
Sunset
We do not fear the Moon, cold and delicate;
we contemplate her as we would an absent-minded mistress.
courting her without fear,
aware there is no menace in her blue glance,
nor pain in her absence.
The Sun, that magical source of light and heat-
robust, arrogant,
showers life itself onto the earth,
creating and giving substance to our existence,
at times our punishment, at times our blessing,
but always, always, our destiny.
How many innocent beings we have sacrificed without pity
In our terror that He will abandon us!
Each evening we watch entranced as the mighty disc
slowly fades below the horizon, casting its last rays
against clouds that bleed scarlet
or shine with gold,
seas that reflect long incandescent trails
of astounding beauty,
filling our eyes with promises of eternal life
and our primitive memories with insecurity.
Will the Sun rise again tomorrow
to awaken the rose to her glory and the mockingbird to his song?
Shall I feel its presence slide through the window from the garden
to kiss my face, lick my eyelids
with little tongues of light?
Will there be a sunrise for me tomorrow?
Sue Littleton has been writing for 50 years. Her experiences come from a sheep ranch in West Texas to the sophisticated capital of Argentina,
and from 18 years in Buenos Aires to Austin,Texas.
A college education is a wonderful thing. She graduated at age 57. Her poetry returned to her with intense joy and a range unknown before
the mind-dazzling experiences of undergraduate studies.
Email: Sue Littleton
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