Maybe it’s too much to ask.
I’d like my grandchildren to see the dying of a silver star.
I doubt they’ll be very big by then. Their eyes wide
Against the black barrenness of the north,
Their mouths red like candies, hanging open,
Ready to drink in the sky. They won’t remember it.
That will be a moment in their lives that
I will steal from them. Such is the privilege
Of the very old, our memory-makers slowing down,
Over the very young. I won’t tell them.
When they bury me, they won’t realize
I’m selfishly holding onto something of theirs,
Bearing it down with me into the ether.
My generation were the light-benders, people like water.
We lit up the ground we stepped on,
And darkened the skies. For this,
Our grandchildren will fight with stick and stone
For what is leftover. But I can show them this.
This one last flash of light,
The sky, the last frontier
That no one could steal, or build over, or deforest.
They won’t remember. Maybe this is a mercy.
this is wonderful