just when we have stars to search for
the clouds cover the sky
a gray-yellow windswept blanket
of cool air that blows
the fire’s ashes into our faces.
it breathes whining into their voices
but isn’t strong enough
to carry me away
on a blanket of puffy nighttime clouds
back to my home
my backbone
my place to be me.
in a mostly futile attempt
they hold their glittery black star papers
under the eerie blue light of
crank-up flashlights,
then shine them anxiously
into the night sky.
a few stars tease us
but not enough to create a constellation
and their rays of light
search the holes in the blanket
for the hope, the possibility
of seeing what we all know is not there.
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