FORTUNE COOKIE

The stars appear every night in the sky, all is well.

The northwest wind, that rattles the skirts of paradise,

Comes forth from just below them.

They are a river too hard to cross,

                                                             it has been said.

But the stars don’t care, so snug on their blistering thrones,

Giving the waters a glint here and a non-glint there.

Every so often, however, they fall down,

                                                                      though all is still well,

Their crowns in a straight blaze to nowhere.

These little lights through the fall-stripped trees

Would like to be stars,

These lingering rhododendron blooms

                                                                   and white roses

Would like to be stars.

But they are just earth fodder, and programmed for rot and ruin.

The stars are otherwise,

                                           above the wind, below the heavens.

That seems a nice fit to me, not too cold, not too hot,

Time in its peregrinations a stop here and a stop there.