which man painted them
on the wall of the cave
that keeps feet pressed to the ground?
Reflections of light in a dew-laden sky
mourning and waiting
for an even greater sunrise.
Tag Archives: stars
And Stars,
Filed under Poetry
Felis Sleeps
Cat dreams of mice
flocked and nestled together—
dressed in wool.
Sparks emit between them:
like lightning that is red-quiet
and does not touch ground.
Each mouse has a number
since Cat is sleeping
and counting 22, 23, 24…
And stirring, Cat rolls
over, head now upside down
paws now downside up.
Watching, we are afraid.
If Cat finishes counting—
which he never has—
we don’t know what will happen.
Filed under Poetry
Kathodos
Where I live, you can touch the sky from the ground.
Sodium vapor colors the prints of your fingers
as you scalpel the sky—
sundering the initial incision.
At point-blank range, grass becomes a myth
because we have made a fold. From here,
Atlantis drips chalk-white starlight into the dippers
of the cosmos and each mile traveled
is a hundred hundred lifetimes in both directions.
Tacked-on zeroes have no value, though,
but act as placeholders in the holy places
of the universe. “Trees also reach up like us,”
someone once said, “but their roots
keep them tight to the soil.”
Where, by day,
we play and toil.
Photo by Tim Stone
Filed under Poetry
You and I Are Walking
“You and I Are Walking”
We have walked, my legs tracing yours,
to a cornfield and back.
Tectonics stir beneath my skin and I’m shaking
when you pull hairs out from your scalp—
I tell you, “I’m glad we couldn’t decide,”
and you whisper to the Photuris, “Me too.”
I believe that place was a sacred one
where time did not elapse, clouds did not pass,
and the stars held the sky together
like nails in a roof.
In a different time and space,
we held hands through the woods.
Our cellphones alight like beacons—
we watch stars leap from the heavens as bugs glimmer in the mist.
National Geographic, Photograph by Steve Irvine
Filed under Poetry
