I want to see the stars.
Untainted by city lights.
Unobscured by cloudy nights.
From my porch, they seem as dim as distant flashlights, but I know they are so bright.
Take me to a field.
A field with blossoming wildflowers and morning dew on the grass.
I’ll bring a blanket if you bring cookies and a jar of milk.
I promise as we look toward the heavens, it will feel like we’re laying on a bed of silk.
Because there’s a fullness that only comes from immersing yourself in creation and recognizing the craftsmanship of the creator.
Pause.
Breathe in, and out.
Eight billion people live in the world.
And we all can be guilty of forgetting that it’s not mortal trees that give us the air we breathe.
A thousand poems tell the tales of love and loss.
And I could write a thousand more, but this one is for . . .
The one who breathed into my lungs and hung the stars in my sky.
