Finding

Stealthy, that sky just

Appearing like that up there, 

Jumping into my vision,

As I look through the old skylight,

Brushing my teeth 

On my way to bed.

There, allied, in braided 

Constellations that spangle
The pure cloudless night,

The mantle of patterned
Eons slides inexorably 

Into what is always rising:

Season, magic, change 

And constancy, 

And the stars, oh they 

Rage and twinkle

In that loam of infinite navy.

Still I search, my stolid
Brushing witless, without
Quite realizing

That the mariner's sextant
Is always burnished by moon's 

Every same and mystic

Wax and wane.

Sailing now, the rushing
Carries, and 

It's no big deal. I think 

To myself: really?

You thought this might not happen?