Because I was teaching—
something I rarely do these
days—I missed the eclipse,
relying on the eyes of others,

later absorbed by photos of
hundreds of tiny half moons
projected through a pinhole
of some kind—a colander

in one case—little smudges
of light and shadow spilling
onto sidewalk or building,
piercing black pupils

surrounded by bright irises.
I focused on those partially
eclipsed crescents beamed
earthward, imagining that

those wispy shapes had
more to teach than I did.
Why didn’t I think to urge us
all to push away from our

screens and step outside?
Not to look up, but to look
down at the reflected glory
in miniature of our nearest

star—just there, underfoot—
such resplendent grandeur
that surely will outlast
us all.