by Steve King
© 2012 All rights reserved
The sky is low with winter clouds.
I cannot see the stars;
my upturned face
at least may touch the winter sky.
I was told each star
is an unclaimed wish:
the heavens’ brilliance
a mosaic pavement
marking paths for derelict desire.
Such promises mean little.
Wishes are more free than stars—
there are longings to outweigh
a universe of light.
I have always held a star apart.
Should I see another one tonight
I know where I would ground its waiting wish.
Soon the earth will shift its heavy airs,
just the way your guarded eyes do change
to capture the next mood.
Then will the winter sky alight…
And then might old desires at last intrude.
Then shall wishes rain from winter stars.
