As stars go, of course it is rather nondescript, small, middle aged stuck in a distant corner of a not all that impressive galaxy.
Yet each morning it sweeps the sky storing all of its kin, even the biggest and brightest, into its own celestial closet where they will remain locked away until it decides it needs a rest and lets them return to once again paint the sky.
We are jealous of trees, anchored as we are to a grasping earth, able to tear free only momentarily or with the help of machines,
for trees can approach the clouds, swaddle all manner of birds, and, we are certain, know heaven more intimately than we can.
And trees are jealous of birds, able to fly well above their highest branches, knowing the true blue of the sky and the verdant base from which they took flight.
Just for the fun of it I asked ChatGPT to write a poem on this topic. Here is its effort:
In envy we gaze upon the sky, Watching birds soar with such grace and ease, Their wings taking them to places high, Leaving us on the ground to freeze.
We long to join them in their flight, To feel the wind beneath our wings, To escape the troubles of our plight, And spread our arms to feel the fling.
But alas, we are not meant to fly, Our feet firmly planted on the earth, While birds glide through the clouds on high, Showing us the true meaning of worth.
We may be jealous of their freedom, But let us not forget our own, For we have the ability to dream, And make our own paths to be shown.
So let us not dwell on jealousy, For we too have our own unique gifts, Let us embrace our humanity, And find joy in the life we’re given
He leans against the wall outside the Prêt à Manger witting with his dog on the old Mexican blankets that look uniquely out of place on a cool London morning. He sips the now fetid coffee in its Styrofoam cup, its Burger King logo and temperature warning. His hair is long, mostly gray with streaks of white, his beard white with swaths of blond, he looks as though he just stepped down the plank of the great sailing ship, returned from a voyage save for his tattered, stained Manchester United sweatpants. I put 50p in his metal box against my better judgment and stroke behind the ears of the placid dog. “May you be many times praised” he sputters, through teeth stained tobacco brown, “for with more like you, Rufus here, and I shall later enjoy a fine repast. May Saint Dymphna be praised.” In the taxi to Paddington Station I wonder who my patron might be, if Jews only had Saints.
I stood on the ramparts that cold, wet morning looking out over the waiting Irish Sea, this day offering only rain and a November chill.
Write haiku, she said to us and I thought of Basho and Issu who never stood on a 13th Century Welsh fortress and never imagined writing about Llywelyn great or not nearly so.
In the rain and chill I scribbled furiously, retreated to the outer ward where I was joined by a fellow poet who suggested that a tea in the village would please even old Basho.
I have to admit that I loved the Grateful Dead saw them in concert when I could, listened often but could never be considered a Deadhead.
Years later my sons and I loved Moxy Früvous and traveled to nearby shows, bought every album, played them to death so we were justifiably FrüHeads.
But time has passed, that band is now gone as well, and I have taken to drinking margaritas, but only with anejo tequila, Cointreau and lime juice and I will never ever be mistaken for a Parrothead.