Ashes and Water

Somewhere beyond the precincts of here,

a black hole heaves searing winds from a billion suns.

But there, just now, above the bay, light spears

through clouds posting radiant spikes near the horizon.

Among slack swamp waters, small birds whistle

on the heads of cattails as their singing begins,

emphatic in the weave of weeping willows.

And here, too, where shadows grow long and bend

toward water’s edge, marsh gas swims like shining ghosts,

exhalations from smoldering decay—will-o'-the-wisps

aglow below the firmament of ceaseless fire—eerie halos  

crowning the bones and ashes of all that ever was.

What runs deep, far beyond the watcher’s sighs,

gathers in grass and ordains an immensity of stars.