I.
From the spun out galaxies
They are coming home
The stars they flung in wild abandon
They are bringing back
The canvasses they painted
They have taken down
And if they come back cold
And if they come back tired
And if they come back desolate
Here are arms to hold them
Here is warmth to radiate
Deep enough so they can leave
All the long and fruitless miles
All the hopes that came back empty
Deep enough to let them rest
Till they can gain new life as stories
All of my questers
I let them come back
And that which comforts me
Will integrate us all.
II.
Some of them are asking me
Did we really have to bring back
All the stars?
Maybe we left some out there—
Could that be OK?
What if there are really whole swaths of them
Shining up there with the slender, slender crescent moon
While frost settles gently on rooftops?
And maybe space really is
As big as we mapped it
And maybe you can really have it!
—Hush, children. Sleep for now.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 22, 2011