Star

Alone in the quilt of sky,
you blink—
a soft pulse,
older than history,
whispering secrets across silence.

I reach for you
not to touch
but to understand.

Some say you’ve died already,
your light just a memory
still making its way
across this unfathomable dark.

But what is death
to something that gleams so stubbornly,
like a promise
never retracted?

You are the punctuation
at the end of my wondering—
bright, brief, eternal.

Tonight,
you hang just above the roofline,
sharper than any dream,
cooler than breath on glass.

Children draw you
with five careless strokes,
but you are more:
an engine of fusion,
a furnace birthing elements,
a clock of the cosmos.

Still, I name you simply:
star—
as if that word
could contain your fire.

You do not need our language.
You burn,
and that is enough.