We are stars born from dust.
We take turns looking through a telescope,
our magic keyhole into night.
The Universe is our treasure room:
The gilded sky is pressed between
the pages of creation, each star a blazing jewel
that we study with a lens. We gaze a long time,
taking turns, searching for something special,
not sure how to capture the moving night.
Objects that were dim and
light years away now burn near and bright.
Light is enduring: more than time,
more than earth, than water, than you, than me.
We gaze into our remote part of the Universe
to see what’s there. What’s there is
empty space,
a place where galaxies expand, collapse
then move apart. A space where
wild comets fly out of orbit, and,
like fast-burning stars,
plunge into shifting seas.
Beneath the cool cotton of your shirt
you feel strong as Atlas. Beyond
your body mass is a shiny scythe of a moon,
and beyond that - far, far, beyond -
is Andromeda. Tonight we travel
as far as Sirius where I pause long enough
to be amazed at the promise of We because
We is a binary star in a singular-star universe.
Infinity is your arms around me -
as absolute, certain, and undeniable
as the rings around Saturn.
You aim the telescope
toward Jupiter,(a huge thing that looks
layered as agate), and say:
What a beautiful night.
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