A
Frontier Star
(“I am always singing
about the wonderful things you do.” Psalm 71:8)
No matter when the day
starts, the beginning is behind me
somewhere else along the highway;
shadows fall, short or long, oriented from east to west,
as long as the sun follows the past traced for it long ago.
We, as tiny children,
wander around it and yet, the cosmic wind
hardly ever
blows our hair up over our faces. The day is never longer
than the circles we make across the black expanse.
We do not shine; from
space our cat’s-eye marble is hardly
visible
to the frontier’s nearest star. Train your scopes toward
the milky way’s center, from beyond belts of asteroids,
past the ninth and tenth planets, into the leftovers of creation
where darkness inhales and vacuity shines until
full-tilt gravity swallows it all in a single bite.
Is there laughter
beyond the planets, the rampant dance
of puppies and babies who can’t act but only play?
Are there tears above beneath, the unleashed emotion
of hot tears on frozen cheeks from pain or fear
or nervous tics?
But here we are, at
home on this blue and green
like children alone without a safety gate at the top of the stairs.
We see smaller and think larger than we are. And yet,
some days start with the perfect realization that we are dots
and the dots are stars, and the sky is fathomless, and the sea
is a teaspoon on a spinning ball mostly unobserved.
And some days begin,
and begin again, as if time
has wandered into the wilderness as we scratch our heads
awaking
to dreams of school days
and
a morning of shaving white stubble from our faces.
And all days end with
the expanse still expanding,
and all nights begin with the Unseen minding
every waterfall and sleepy fawn,
super nova and future dawn,
and above belowness, closer than continuous,
We are well-loved from
now and before,
cared-for better than then and well-after,
so that
All days, no matter
when they start,
begin with the end softly and safely in view.
