Returning Late

Earth rolled on its axis for a cold homecoming at dusk.

You two under the night-sky, upturned to ancient light,

renewed a childish wonder seeing what I pointed out

through the simple dark above moonless roofs.

That silver bead-bright stud stuck in vast blackness -

was it the International Space Station,

reflecting low down in the West?

Or was it mythical Venus firing your ripe amazement?

I wanted the mastery of padded astronauts,

solar lit panels, precision-controlled satellites.

But you, being a child, preferred the ancient goddess,

a foaming shell-birth in Paphos and timeless wild imaginings.

Zeus was credible when this starlight began its journey;

I tremble for your passage through ancestral heavens;

would bind our nuclear moment under a sudden

low flurry of geese ghosting the windless night.

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Monkeys: There are no monkeys here. If you're looking for monkeys, go away. Well, actually there are monkeys, but they're of the hairless variety that writes poetry and such. If that's not what you're looking for move along.