Stars, in your multitudes,
Until now unseen, by a new-formed mariner,
Who never truly understood wine-dark
Until he saw the waves at midnight.
Little light reflected off the glassy swells:
No moon, no fluorescents, but only the stars
Cast far across the sky from long ago,
Who, in their season, return always the same.
Each night, I take to the wings alone
And greet the Heavenly Shepherd:
A faithful guardian through all these years–
A reminder of its Maker’s faith and constancy.
Did that Artist ever paint another such piece?
Or was this the Creator’s chef d’oeuvre–
Did He step back and approve of His work
When the brush strokes had fallen that day?
They were called good then; so they remain now,
Reminders in the darkness of order and light–
Silent sentinels, keeping their watch at night,
Sure of holding their course and their aim.
I reach but do not fall as the night is closing in,
Staring into the black tapestrial void,
Aflame with lights that will not falter or fall:
The Maker’s gift of stars, scarce to be counted.