Oh, we see the stars, all right,
their brittle cold mystery
but if you took the gentlest
of knives and pushed open
the top of my head like clay,
in there are all the warm constellations
one could dream of, a star nesting
in every fingertip, Polaris in each eye,
a Milky Way down my core.
Here are all my unmapped stars, the candles
of my small hopes, oh, and look,
there are a few of yours there too!
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2022
Continents of stars, infinite
stars…Yet I will not bow down
to them. Instead I
will stand in grandeur
like the silver maples whispering
along a favorite path
and arch out my limbs
to gather up their lights in the basket
of my mind.
The stars are as alive in their
rambles as I am beneath their
sharp glories. We are shining
together, we are bioluminescent
in this pregnant night where
no questions curdle about if I matter
or not.
J. Pratt-Walter
NaPoMo 4/1/2022
