After the Storm
We talked of the usual things, small things, what we would do
with our lives, how we would spend
our summer vacation. An empty road,
January night. Snow pinching
under our boots. Clear.
We talked of warm places,
pointed out constellations
(Orion, Cassiopeia), wondered
how people ever saw outlines
of people up there. Or
imagined music in the blackblue
nothingness. Somewhere out west,
you said. A camping trip somewhere
out west. We reached the end
of the lane and turned back, sky
cluttered by branches, moon
a bright leaf. The astronomers
say the edge of the universe
is expanding but
may one day reach an ultimate
limit. Is it possible? Can
the mind understand what the heart
cannot bear? We need to feel
the open space again, you said,
to me, to the moon, to the gray
sagging trees. Just voices
keeping company in one corner
of the Milky Way, reminding
each other of the somethingness
that has no edge.