Moon hangs incandescently over me,
curved in a Cheshire smile.
How my breath swirls upward,
vapors.
Could I reach them?
My hands are lonely here,
gloved with earthly gravity.
They tingle, numbed with chill
as if they were dipped in the artic river of stars.
With eyes turned ninety degrees -
I gaze.
The night could trail on forever.
How ignorant was I,
denying the existence of those tiny pulsating bulbs.
Here, devoid of all interruption,
they glare, dizzyingly...
Meanwhile,
my pupils grope for their energy,
as they were -
seemingly the only lights for miles.
My comrades are as awed as I,
Tracing constellations,
Fingers skyward.
And shouting -
the direction of the ursas.
Their gaze as curious,
their eyes as thirsty,
their virgin minds as ignorant -
enough to gander a moment,
"Could I reach them?"