If I Were a Poet

I was born beneath the sky.
I was not alone:
On that day, 275 million stars were also born.
A sky full of grace and not much else;
After all, most of the universe is nothing.

On a summer morning,
children spread their towels on the beach.
In the evening they are gone,
and I’m left alone
with the cold night pressing down on me.

I wish I could fill up that great void,
or could it be there’s something there
that my eyes aren’t tuned to see?

Maybe the sky is an immortal tent,
a myriad of dancing souls
who greet each other by name
and share their memories of pain,
though all their tears are now as far away
as east is from the west.

Maybe on the other side of death,
some things still won’t make sense,
but all things will be beautiful.