I remember a summer’s day watching an eclipse through pinhole cameras.
Stood next to the tree in the garden, and the holes in the leaves
cast a thousand shadows of a sun swallowed by the moon.
Recreated on the chipped concrete of the back yard,
a perfect curve as sphere interrupted sphere,
a sight repeated through imperfect circles.
And in the gloom it’s impossible not to marvel
at how small we are.
At how easily we’re all cast under the same shade.
But that day a thousand tiny leaves made a thousand tiny replicas
of an inevitable cosmic phenomenon,
and they did it by accident.