by Michael Keshigian

Upon a summer’s eve when the lawn
was not yet drenched with dew
and still radiant from the day’s warmth,
when the tips of white pines
rose skyward like long fingers
to tickle the underside of stars
as the evening air vibrated
to a cricket ostinato,
he laid atop the grass,
arms and legs extended,
and marveled at the infinite distance
above him with its clustered collection
of variously illuminated rocks and stones,
wondering what will become of him
once his time in this dimension ended,
where he might find himself,
what form he might take,
and in fact, would he be aware
to bear witness.
His thoughts transcended
and for an instant he became one
with the mass about him
and believed he heard
his name whispered
in the harmony about,
a single concordant breath,
faint and distant,
like a dried autumn leaf
brushed by a wandering snowflake
as though it belonged,
not to him or his parents
who endowed it upon him,
nor to this place on earth,
but to the vast emptiness
and unanswered question
from which we all appeared,
to which we shall all return.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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