Stars have a secret.
They are always falling
into orbits of glory.
They do not attempt to fly.
Darkness is their wing.
If you don't believe me,
you’re still trying not to fall.
Plunge more deeply
into the womb of night
and you will draw very near
to the radiance
of your Birth.
Call it the hollow
that runs through your spine,
through the center of Andromeda,
the axis through the nest
of all that whirls.
Call it uncreated light,
the dawn not yet descended,
holding in its tiny cups
the coming Spring,
the seeds of a new creation,
curving infant embryos,
curling their hands, their petals,
shaping their dreams on the tip
of a stamen.
Or say the secret is
twin infinite beams
gazing through all centers
from the mirror of your face
into the mirror of mine,
until they collide in
the kiss, the catastrophe
that is everywhere.
Photo: NASA James Webb Telescope
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