At night, we stare into the black,
ponder the position of the stars,
meditate on matters of faith,
and compose soaring ballads
of thanks for our blessings.
Throwing our worries to the wind.
With the rising of the wind,
we look deeper into the midnight black,
and find that those blessings
are as distant as the light of stars.
We raise our voice, seeking the ballads
to redeem our shaky faith.
Through the poetics of faith,
through the myths on the wind,
we rewrite these ancient ballads
to speak to the empty black
space between the stars
where we have always sought our blessings.
We aren’t supposed to question these blessings,
are only supposed to take them on faith,
to believe there is more than emptiness between stars,
to believe that there is meaning to the wind –
and to the heart of man so black
that it sometimes composes murder ballads.
There is haunting reality to these dark ballads,
a human abstract not found in blessings,
a complicated place in the black
truth of humanity, not found in pure faith.
Faith is as fleeting as the wind.
In reality, we are made of the distant stars.
It is to the pure light of these stars
that we should compose our ballads.
In the constant of the trade winds
we should seek our blessings.
In nature and humanity we should put our faith,
even when the heart of humanity is sometimes black.
Though our ballads are often black,
and the wind shakes our faith,
that we are made of stars is our blessing.
April 25, 2017
This poem is included in my poetry book Air Over Bone