can it be on these nights
when we are tucked in our home
curled up on the couch with
doughnuts of dogs at our feet,
the kitchen still holding the aroma
of the garlic I roasted this afternoon
the way we are holding life close,
with only a couple of lights burning
even the clouds have closed us in
still – beyond them the stars shine
small lights, from my view,
lights like ours, crossing the sky
constellations of community
each one a household shining
in the darkness; such is the stuff
of which universes are made
when we go to bed each night
we never turn off all the lights
two lamps stay burning in the kitchen,
both made from old fixtures;
can it be some sailor on a sea
we have yet to name finds his way
because our light is shining,
our kitchen light, our star?
Peace,
Milton
