Monday Poem

Confluence of Friends

We sit under the stars in wicker chairs
Only the light of galaxies reaches us,
that and the spare, streaked flash of meteors
in August. The dust of the Milky Way,
a cloud of packed suns separated by light years
disappearing behind the house roof south
and the trees north at Halberg's garden,
looks no more than smudge-like
in this billion-year gaze into the past
these touches of light having left home
when young until now after eons
they spark, aged but vital still,
in the space of eight eyes and four brains
igniting awed talk and cosmic laughs
in this eternal confluence of friends

by Jim Culleny