Moonwalker
The night’s face, pocked with stars.
In the stellar wind, we soar.
From this pale light,
acknowledge insignificance, watch
the blue spinning so far away, so close.
I am that finite point
of nowhere, of nothing, wondering
when the sun will truly darken,
if I will see tomorrow, today.
* * *
“Moonwalker” first appeared in Ligeia’s Winter 2019 edition. Many thanks to poetry editor Ashley Wagner for taking this poem.
O at the Edges 
Intriguing – suspect I’m not the finite point of anything as I continue changing. Been camping yet again – time blessed with stillness, conversations on hold, Nature “speaking”, awareness emerging. Your closing haunts: how many tomorrows remain? how close to FINAL (if not finite) am I?
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I believe that I’m finite, but am willing to wait a while to confirm it. đŸ™‚
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