The stars spun. The stars spin, still, and spin past sight. There is so much starlight I cannot see, but it only adds to the mystery of this whole, blessed night.
More than enough of the stars’ reflection gathers before me and I feast recklessly. There’s plenty for all.
Maybe this is the tiniest glimpse of trying to know eternity—the awareness that so much stretches beyond, but all that is beyond is also right here, undiminished. The awareness that total completion and desire-transcending thirst not only coexist, but somehow, someway, are the same.
It’s as if I walked past a door to a concert hall and, hearing the faintest, highest note from a violin—perhaps even only in my mind?—caught one, stray clue of a symphony, concerto, mass.
I could feast on one note.
Right now, there is no starlight, none visible to my weak sight. It’s there, It’s there, It’s there, I could repeat endlessly, but no matter how much I remind, I can’t will starlight to be seen tonight.
No, moonlight has taken center-stage. Its raining droplets are more maternal, softer, nurturing than starlight with its wildness and vitality. Still, though, I can feast every bit as recklessly.
My sister sitting beside me smiles and I marvel: there are half-crescent moons etched into the corners of her mouth! When I open my eyes and mouth to feed on a diet of celestial light, I see its emblems mark the corners of the galaxy and corners of someone’s face.
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