Our children sleep among the stars:
blunt, bodiless, unnamed.
The music of their spheres is one long vowel.
None has been signaled from the ground by us,
at least not yet.
Mere argument will never bring them down,
since accidental entry is their mode,
a rupture into flesh,
the starlight overhead past recollection.
Their going will be difficult as well:
a disremembering, consonants disowned.
That change will hurt like every other change.
Only in the spring,
when new grass skims a sudden world,
will any of them understand our need,
our wishing we could hold them,
say their names and set them down.