When clouds obscured the partial eclipse,
Isaiah lay back, looking at the clouds.
As the clouds transformed,
On occasion he could get a glimpse
Of the bright edge of the clouds
Through his eclipse glasses,
A hint of cloud-shaped orange light.
He asked me about the number of syllables
In a few words,
Which I thought nothing of,
Being distracted by
Keeping Caleb from going blind,
Keeping Abraham from overheating.
When Isaiah asked for paper and a pen,
Distracted I claimed I had none,
Until he asked again, surprised.
Or course I had those things.
(When will I start to pay attention better?
Or pay attention to all that needs answering?)
“Look, Mom! I wrote a haiku!”
I can see the cloud
That is covering the sun
An unearthly sight
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