If I hadn’t tried to write it in a poem, the thought, a little glimmer, would have expressed itself in far different ways.  Did, in fact; I wrote a page in my journal about cleaning the house while thoughts hovered just at the edge of my accepting them – borderline negative, but held at bay by some impervious membrane.  I came to the place of seeing how much the same we all are, for all our sense of singularity and frequent isolation.  We all need to bring forth that within us which makes us who we are.  In poetry, it came out like this:

There is no existential fact of night

the word speaks of the endless depth of space

the field wherein the play of stars is staged

Each star gives tribute to the light

Each star must serve the existential light

the pulse within, essential churning force

which rises out of need and tumbles forth

We see their sharp travail across the night

We see their offering across the night

and know we, too, must ever do the same

we too must birth our inner urgent flame

Each life gives tribute to the light.