Rich, moonless pull
of darkness,
gorged with potential,
crammed with awareness,
heavy with
some unknowable

something . . .

sink lower,
come closer,
unwrap the
ancient world
where long-dead
stars are a
pageant of phantoms,
but more alive
than I'll
ever be
in this life.

Make all of this
small again.

Come to me
from the end
of the universe,
well, the end
of my very
small one,
and tell me all
about pondering
emptiness
and the answer
I keep hoping
will fall
from the roof of
all worlds.

So when will
we be this
clarity of being,
adored in the arms
of engulfing
perfection,
absorbed
in the essence of
All That Is
And Ever Was?

When does this end
and That begin?

When are we finally
in the Light?

And the answer
swells like
Andromeda's pride
through pensive
and roiling space:

Always.


Patricia Joan Jones