As Things Are

Night. A slight grey turning indigo.
Stars emerge slowly. One by one
until suddenly there is a heavenly host.

It is likely they sing to no one but you.
No matter, you are used to listening
when no one else is. It is an art.

Night. A darker grey turning indigo.
Turning black with light. Bits of it.
Stars. The Milky Way. Even without the moon

it is bright, as things are
when you rest long enough for the eyes to adust

About this poem

About the stars at night. About sitting with things. About letting life settle around you no matter what seems to be happening. Wait long enough, open your eyes/ears/mind/heart and you can see through the maelstrom and find the essence.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom