It is not the heart, raising towers people clamor to scale, and from which, wage the wars of all distinctions.
It is the shared illusion of what is real; not what is important.
Just as it is known, night time is best to remember, that which is forgotten. Awake while people sleep, awash in dreams so soon forgotten. Dreams, though forgotten, that still remain, as if they might have been. The slow ending of the day, lived, wrapped in chosen sheets of warmth and comfort. To begin again.
Many nights, since the summer came, were clear. Late, far past the waking hours, outside. Their breath quietly filling dreams, beneath a sky dense with distant lights. In their homes, spread wide through the darkness all around, for a time, the peaceful breath of sleep.
At night, in deep sleep, the yard smells sweet, fresh, though it is unseen. The trickle of water, distant, carries through the night. The porch light shut off so all can be felt. Even tiny sounds from unexpected places.
Standing there each night, dumb in the grass, with only hints of objects in the black, I look up. Into that vast array I could never speak: all that deserves words most — and it is too much. It fills me to the point of disappearance.
For even asleep, we ride, flung upon our sphere, through the majesty of all that is beyond us — of what we are. A beauty so impossible, the heart breaks.
Only a short while, the near reflective Moon, that washes out the light, has surrendered, hiding its glare behind an horizon. Jupiter, as they sleep, has stealthily visited during dreams, like a star rising in the south sky through the jagged silhouettes of evergreens, gliding through their tops, across the West.
And as they sleep, currents of pale light writhe overhead, stretched across a boundless dome. Where beyond, the dizzying angle of our earth’s tilt is revealed.
Showers of the fallen burst in quick bright streaks.
Even sometimes, the house we built, sent into the sky, glides by, where thirteen people now live.
Until morning, when the great beast of fire returns, blotting out the stars, and people wake. As if to say, what is not seen, did not exist.
In their dreams, under this starry arc, in the light of day.