The Dying Astronaut

Take my hand,
Old friend of good times passing!
Sit here, recall with me
The sound of engines, blasting.

Think back to the last time
We raised a mast toward heaven
Got foothold among the stars
Gripped the rocks of planets far away
The face of Mercury and Mars
Held close; then, pushed away.

And don’t you, my friend,
Don’t you mourn the passing
Of the good old days.

At midnight
On the darkest of all summer nights
When the symphony of summer sounds
Crescendos loud then hushes,
Quiets down,
Stands mute against the scene:

Of light streaming into black

A warmly lighted room
A room filled up with human light
Cast out like us into the night
Cast out, and streaming, foretelling certain doom:
“The morning will come soon!”

Look for me.
I am the light from every kitchen door.