Aligned

Above that building
a star is burning—
it must be a billion years old.

Unbelievable that it could blaze
so brightly above this city.
You never see stars anymore.

And what it's burning for—
makes its age
irrelevant. Bends

a moment by distance divided
by light outlasting day—
like marking your birth

by when you were found;
like a moment, born
with no before—

the only thing that matters
is: what shines,
that we saw it.

That we keep it burning
and remember how important, how rare
to be a source of that glow

on the ground—mirroring
luminosity, intensity
of heat, devoid of dimension

with a boundless reach, this
is the constellation
I've been waiting to be part of:

an axis poled
by Give and Reflect,
a radiating line in a vast darkness.

Between us, a balance.
A calm accord of pull, driven
by an energy older than the earth is old—

an impulse as simple as flame.
A longing pervading as strongly
as you illuminate. The fire infusing

the light. And whether it be
by fortune or design
may this be written:

our alignment is a gift. Like timing
defying how old we've been;
like a wish in the path of a star.

.