What I imagine is that it would take trillions of lifetimes to walk to a star, if such a path could be laid.
As it is, in this few minutes of a waning life, small pips of existence are noticed along the way: that the summer weeds are as verdant as a jungle. That the creepers, flyers, and hoppers are more jittery than they have been in other summers.
That the lawns of the estate homes are all brown, despite the money. Care seems to have gone inside, behind drawn curtains. There might be wisdom there.
A single squirrel eats all of the peanuts from our feeder, fighting off his challengers.
In the lowly ditches, a single sock (rolled up). Common beer bottles and plastic cups. Tree limbs, lopped into equal sections, seeping pine sap (a smell that’s a hint of heaven).
Walk me to the stars, my love. Walk me to the stars.
Aremyfeetofftheground 