Comets are constantly falling.
We don’t know when.
But if we’re open, our eyes are open,
The comment will appear.
It is not me.
And it will change everything.
If we’d only wait for it to appear.
This poem was written on a backpacking trip through the Wind River Range in Wyoming. I slept under the stars. A meteor broke into pieces in the middle of the night and it seemed I was the only one in the audience. Later, the moon rose over the mountains. As I lied under the terrifying vastness of the space above me, I was moved to mutter, “I surrender to you God.” Then for some reason I thought, “I have children. Vanessa carried them for us.”
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