CALL ME BELOVED

it feels strange to say that I miss the stars
when I’ve only really met them a scant few times.
huddled in a new hampshire cabin, eight years old –
they were just above the pines –
and so, so many of them.

I pick out the brightest, the flurry of potential
is only a memory. neighborhood houses are painted
sickly green through the night time haze –
a muted sky over rooftops haloed in dull brightness.

I believe that I miss them because I am part of them,
and it’s the kind of thinking I should fall into more often –
I forget to think small thoughts. I am star dust, assembled
in a shape for this short while, tumbling through space, and
this makes me feel small, and this is a good way to feel.
always, the better part of myself misses the stars
like a child misses its mother.