The Hayfield Chandelier

Two women comb their hair in separate rooms

of separate houses in the dark of a single night

on earth and one is my mother and the other

is her friend and this sentence is like a road

built for them to travel when they can or want

to travel out of loneliness at the end of the day

and meet and talk about whatever exactly it is

that my mother and her friend talk about now—

two figures in nightgowns in a hayfield sitting

at a table drinking coffee—and if you will, notice

how the bright September stars hang over them

swaying out like a chandelier and notice how

the road runs beside them like a kind of river

and the other few passengers of this sentence

do not disturb the peace but move on, quietly,

leap silently in the night air but for the most part

the road is untraveled and the deep starlight

sways gently and casts just enough good light

for my mother and her friend to see each other

very clearly and a long time passes and laughter