A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Scintillating. Shimmering. Sparkling. I am not 

deserving of this incandescent Starlight, this glimmering

beauty that pierces the darkness of my night sky.

Tonight is bleak. 

I know that my selfish indulgence of my own desire 

has caused you pain, and ‘sorry’ 

neither heals your wounds 

nor encompasses the depth of my sorrow.

I am grateful that my foolishness does not

extinguish the fire of your stars, that their radiance

persists despite my flaws, shining through the murkiness 

of my error and confusion. Is it any wonder

I keep dismantling the roof of my own boundaries

in order to admire the Starlight? I know 

I could lay here all night, inspecting, exploring,

appreciating these jewels adorning my empyrean,

lamenting the knowledge that I must not touch them.

In these southern skies, Centaurus offers 

its brightest stars, Alpha and Beta, 

as a pointer to Crux, and I am struck

by the poetry of nature: that you are so far away

and yet so close, just like these orbs

that lend their glow yet cannot be caressed.

What have I to offer stars? Nothing 

but my attention and admiration, my awe

and my interest.  And yet, they bestow 

their gentle, glorious light,

enriching my humble existence,

and I am again reminded that I am but dust.

I do not deserve this Starlight, yet I will

cherish it until my own light fades.