A Future Planet, Waiting
A Future Planet, Waiting
Beyond the patient grammar of our skies,
past maps that end in hesitant ellipses,
there turns a planet without a name,
only coordinates whispered in cold light.
It keeps its distance like a thoughtful stranger.
Its dawn is not our dawn,
yet something in its glow resembles welcome,
a copper horizon breathing mist,
oceans folding like quiet blue silk,
continents shaped as if memory had a hand in them.
No footsteps there,
only the long rehearsal of wind over stone,
valleys learning the language of shadows,
and rivers writing letters no one has opened.
Still, it prepares.
Clouds gather with a kind of intention,
rain falls as though practicing tenderness,
and seeds, if they are seeds,
wait inside the dark with ancient patience.
One day, perhaps,
a fragile vessel will cross the black miles,
carrying lungs full of borrowed air,
carrying eyes that have known loss and wonder.
We will arrive not as conquerors,
or so we will promise,
but as listeners at the edge of a new story,
placing our small, uncertain weight,
upon a ground that has never known us.
And the planet,
this quiet, unclaimed breath of the universe,
will not greet us with words.
Only with sky.
Only with silence wide enough
to hold our hope.
And in that silence,
we may finally hear
how young we are.
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