For long periods, I forget to look up

at the vastness of night. The ebony breadth

and depth reaching beyond to forever.

Days, night, weeks, I face front, down

watch my steps on uneven boulders

as I navigate about in this life, on this island

until halted by the noise of a full moon.

It takes that much.

Then I look up “Oh yes, it’s you.”

Luna sits me down, demands I look to where

she hangs, doesn’t hang, no hook, just traveling

on her rounds connecting east to west to east.

Like travelers before me, I follow the seasons

of the stars as they emerge in a hush, hallowed

by histories spun by our ancestors eons ago.

Rooted on this beach front, the wave of an epiphany

slams into me (again) “Yes! here we are

night travelers—earth to moonto stars to planets.

Another island making its rounds

in the universe, and I am small, so small

a minuscule being, yet, I know awe.”

Upon taking leave of this planet, my legacy

will meld with the legacies of other poets

in the ebony breadth and depth of night

halt other travelers stumbling on uneven

boulders, looking ahead, looking down

as they navigate about this island during

a life, concentrating on their humble work—

Luna will still insist they look up, know awe.

                            —Bonnie Thompson Enes