and considers stars
whose vectors of light
failed to meet her.
They are dark but alive.
Like the unseen green
of a peacock’s feather
that isn’t there
unless the sun dusts its barbs
with small packets of light:

Pigment that serves
as a metaphor
for the unlit lamp.

Just feeling their gravity
makes a difference –
that of Sirius or Rigel
for example.

Here the surface of time
traces the arc of a spider’s web
spinning lives one-by-one.
But I am warm and comfortable
beneath the sun.
My fur is thick.
So be it.