What The Light Says

That moment when I

enter your eye, know this:

I am not the light you see,

this wave from deep space,

this beam of particles

pin-pricking your night sky--

I was molten hot, swollen,

roiling, violent, swallowing

worlds like yours, then

collapsing inward,

dark, dense, inert, spent.

All I am now is energy, a thin,

unbroken reminder of what

was, what is. It matters not.

My wisdom is this:

You are dust from us,

deep in a red-shifted past,

and you will again be light,

in this universe of

flight and capture,

running and returning.