Examining Images From Space Telescopes

Everything we think we know now was understood
by arcs of diamond-crusted dust, rainbow-hued gasses
that have been travelling through the cosmos for millennia.
We stare at them now through origami lenses.

Arcs of diamond-crusted dust, rainbow-hued gasses
form luminous, lace-webbed, beaded necklaces.
We stare at them now through origami lenses –
a curtain of light that beckons us to examine shadows.

From a luminous, lace-webbed, beaded necklace
encircling the bodies of unnamed galaxies,
a curtain of light beckons us to examine shadows,
dissect the acrobatic movements of unknown star fields

that encircle the bodies of unnamed galaxies,
cavorting like aerialists across ancient colosseums.
We dissect the acrobatic movements of unknown star fields
where black holes beckon like impassioned lovers

cavorting like aerialists across ancient colosseums,
cojoined by flame and fury, ice and obscurity.
While black holes beckon like impassioned lovers,
our own galaxy sits, tiny as a viral lab droplet.

Cojoined by flame and fury, ice and obscurity,
we struggle to comprehend our fates and futures.
Our own galaxy sits, tiny as a viral lab droplet,
as we stare at swirls of wind and fire far past the Milky Way.

We must struggle to comprehend our fates and futures,
try to pierce walls so vast we cannot see the other side.
As swirls of wind and fire engulf the Milky Way,
spiral past our control, perturbing space and time,

we hope to pierce walls so vast we cannot see the other side,
while we still have the luxury of time and intention,
before they spiral past our control to perturb space and time.
We can now fix our lenses on illumination.

A Late October Convocation

       I catch the pattern of your silence before you speak…Langston Hughes  

My mother and I stand in stillness, just before
the sky flames russet, peach and lavender. Snow
geese arc over a Delaware wildlife sanctuary’s
pale waters like a convocation of wimpled nuns
or ivory-robed monks assembling for evening vespers.

As patterns of movement reflect against the liquid
surface, it looks like thousands of worshippers
have gathered to bid the sun a final farewell
or gently applaud a still-shy moon as it takes
its tentative steps toward horizon’s apse.

My mother reaches for my hand while we watch
the watershed shape-shift like diamond-crocheted
linen threads. I think of our lace-making Irish
ancestors, as their needles fluttered to knot each
intricate rosette, shamrock, curved vine, tiny bird

before their work sailed off to grace christening gowns
and bridal dresses of European aristocrats or the sleeves
and hems of priests whose vestments glinted with early
convent light. Multitudes of white geese glide, sweep,
bow like celebrants joining a religious procession.

Wings flutter like flower petals unleashed by late-day
winds or ruffled tutus of dance troupes at dress rehearsal.
They float, rise, swoon, soar above tiny pink shells,
tan-striped mollusks, largemouth bass, white perch.
We are all as hushed as penitents awaiting forgiveness.

Barely six months later, my mother is dead. Our sanctuary
trip was among the last serene moments of our own long
migration. Now, that same silence emerges from space
telescope visions of cinnamon rose-hued clouds, crystal-
studded dust, star-stacked galaxies – our final shared language.