Waiting to be born, again

Photo by Nicole Olwagen on Unsplash

From the towering shadows of cloud
A flash of the evening star, a gap through
To a sun above the vaulted sky: high so very high,
And faraway, high windows allot a view
Of pinpricks in the blackness. Stars await
Their conversion to black holes of dense
Compact immensity. Swallow you whole they could
Spit you out before you were born. Still water
Reflects these stars. Contains them in a glistening cul-de-sac
Of time. Stars waiting to be seen are open to suggestion.
And there is a path through the third dimension of air
To a place and a time when I’m no longer there.
A place and time that rhymes with fate
Never ever be late, for one’s own funeral.