(for Sue Butler and Antsy McClain, with love and thanks)

The light that gets lost
is blue at the edges,
the kind that, if you could
soar high enough,

you might see hugging
the curvature of the Earth
like a soft baby blanket,
wrapping this blue marble
in light that does not
touch you, cannot
touch you, but
holds you, nonetheless,

not as gravity pins you,
but much more gently,
the blue embrace
of something you can’t name,
that feels like being found,
like coming home,
a twinkling blue under
a star-filled sky.