Although the stars profess to know,
those secrets from which we are so removed,
their whispers in softness glows within their being,
and I look up and question them,
their memories of aeons past,
when life was dust and potentials cast
by hands of omniscience intent.
How I wonder their secrets,
their colored dreams,
when suns begot gases and dust
and gases and dust begot suns,
in this eternal shaping of life;
and we evolved in sentient mind
to stand and wonder still, the meaning.
Truth as elusive as butterflies,
one step ahead in ragged course,
and we so resolved to catch that colorful truth,
yet a grasping hand is slow
and we so far from what we ask,
living is all we can do,
and peer up to heavens with gratitude,
our questions like mists upon the waters.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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