Between the feathery
voice of pines
and some yesterdays
that can
no longer touch me,

on a startrail
of the spirit,
through
moon-saturated air,
through
open gates to forever,

I find my way back
to silence,
to the One who
deciphers the
riddle of being,
to the One who makes
it a simple thing
to live audaciously,

truthfully,

to live in the
hereafter
right here

with the same
daring as
this exhibit
of antiquity,
hissing and dripping
with worlds.


Light years are
the script of
a relentless Heart
that will be here
long after
Polaris is a
jewel-like outburst of
dust and gas and
ecstatic light

and stellar relics
are scattered as
monuments to
dramas that
fought hard to
stay alive.

It all seems
so infinitesimal,
this worry,
this spite,
as the weight
of immortality
on display
descends upon
the known world,

as a Voice
full of centuries
and spheres
and nebulae
calls to
us one by one:

Come Home.


Patricia Joan Jones