There is not a creature
That pushes the stars
But only a length of forest breathe
At night when none is watching
The little quiet lights, spiraling
Neither modest or calm
But infernos that make us as nothing
And a roaring
From this distance thoughThere’s nothing to it
It’s not a concern
I’ll walk back to the glow at the kitchen door
All this light
It burns a hole in my coat
It invites the darkness
Back to the house
Thankfully it knows nothing of us
And for this disinterest
I’m utterly grateful
~Jef Powers
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