Some stars shone through that summer window
as I lay, gazing up, awaiting sleep.
I imagined myself
on some remote beach:
Me, the milky way, a dying fire,
the rush and pull of ocean waves.
But I was bound in place.
A tremor, soft within the black space
between the stars, spoke,
“Let us not number the stars,
nor the relections of stars.”
The voice proved wise,
but how could I have known?