Vastness, endless vastness, speckled with brilliant stars,
burn until they’re depleted of fuel, then die
in spectacular fashion, with heavenly colours
and cosmic dust rippled in their wake,
which falls upon our heads to nourish the blood
and nurture the life-giving breath.
Eight billion motes of dust float, scurry, dance, twirl
their way through life, heedless
of the totality of existence
that hangs heavy above our heads,
beyond the cloudy heavens.
Who am I in all this? And who are you?
Without steel and concrete, and artificial flavour,
without wifi and iPhones and downloads and scrolling,
without bills and errands, fashion and makeup,
magazine ads,
social acceptance,
and holding grudges.
Perhaps the answer lies in each crack of thunder,
in each sprout of new growth. At the centre of each flower.
If only we can find the time and the patience,
we may see the face of God
in the seventeen-thousand eyes
of the silent butterfly.
~ Chezlynne L.