“Nothing but black sky and green beans,”
I heard my father say when we set up
The telescope behind the house. One lens
The length of downspout, a conduit for light atop
A ladder, held to the heavens. Its counterpart,
A bead of glass cemented for the art
Of focus to a spool, worked in a span
Of lesser tubing in and out and in.
A moon, quaking, filled the oracular plane:
Ivory, ancient, a blasted parchment field.
Then Jupiter—and another tiny moon
Rode at the shoulder of the banded lord.
Now I—I must have been all of twelve—alone
Remain to recall the quiet man detained
From important work to build this for the boy,
And the encouraging mother, and his joy.