An Afghan of Stars
Prose as Poetry
This one is something very different than what I normally write, so please enjoy. I hope my prose or attempted prose resonates.
There are nights like this when all I want is to reach up and gather the dark in my hands, to drape it over my shoulders like a warm, familiar blanket. I envision You — stars alight against ebon depths that flash violet when the light finds them just right — like a hand-knit afghan threaded with diamonds of radiant fire.
Colors abound in Your panoply, hues for which no word exists. Perhaps you carry a violet so fine our eyes cannot discern it, or emerald shot through with living veins pulsing among the nebulae. Crimson sparks arc and dance, wrapping around me, Your cosmic fabric my constant friend.
How are You warm and cold at once? As a child I feared You and what You concealed. Now I do not fear the shade, the deepest ebony, because You are here. What need have I for fear?
When You fall upon the sleeping earth and human lights try to mimic the stars, the cities glitter below like a lesser constellation. Yet beyond all the noise of now, Your wonder is unbroken. I may never leave this earth’s orbit — unless You will it — but each night, I travel through Your sky