And now the moon’s long past rising,
The clouds are worn and thin, draggling
Fraying threads of rain behind them
As they move off hesitantly,
Uncertain, random. And shall we,
Can we, do we carry the ornate
Burdens, still, we have gathered,
Piece by crooked piece from fallen
Feathers and too-fathomable
Fathers, coruscating laughter?
Each day we wake and grasp at threads
Thin as rain, try to weave nets that
Might hold us together under
This incurious gaze of stars.