Nebulae bloom and stars arise.
Helium flashes. The sun dies.
Eyes pointed up, I saw dawdling
Glints of resurrected fire.
Leftovers of giants burning at
10,000 degrees Kelvin flickered
In the black November sky,
Proving I might still be alive.

I was twenty, feeling fifty.
My black lab cried for her meal
And the moon crept south for winter.

Last week I found my calling.
So I wrote my dead father a letter.
As I scribbled, moonlight jigged
On a far off Catholic grave stone

Maybe the stars are time itself
And time too is endlessly born.
The dog just eats her kibble,
Thinking not of stars, space or
Of the infinite meld of it all.

For dogs, time is nothing.