The 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
Grabbed the rocks of planets far away
The face of Jupiter and Mars
Held close; then, pulled away.

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

At midnight
On the darkest of all summer nights
When the symphony of summer sounds
Crescendos well and hushes,
Gathers round,
Stands mute against the scene:

Of light streaming into black

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

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