Maine is at the zenith of her beauty during this time of year. During the day she's wrapped in a cloak covered in amber and ruby, citrine and topaz, garnet and gold. The landscape dazzles against a sapphire sky. At night she's all black velvet and diamonds. It is good to be home again.
What follows is a little something that came to me after taking a star-studded stroll last night. I can't say I had anything particular in mind as I wrote it down. I certainly didn't feel as dark as the poem turned out. Must be the Stephen King effect on Maine in October. I think it's in the water.
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Irony
The stars
are made of all
we wish for--
the wants, desires
from all nations, faiths,
and generations--
that are beyond our owning.
They glitter,
shine and sparkle--leading us on
teasing, taunting,
reminding us what it is
to be human.
Resolutely
we gaze skyward
seeking fulfillment from
their pulsing indifference--
like them, bright and burning.
No empathy emanates from the stars.
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