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The moon is officially full on the 14th, which is only a few hours away, but tonight it already looked full to me as it rose above the pine trees east of my house. Right now I can see it through the bare branches of an oak, it's pale, perfect, bright roundness laced with shadowy twigs.
That oak could easily outlive me, and the ancient moon will probably still be here (though more distant from Earth) when the sun goes nova several billion years hence and wipes out whatever life might be on this planet then. Then the paled moon will orbit lifeless Earth and reflect the dimmed, dwarf sun's wan light for ages and ages more, as the universe expands away from this spent star system.
These thoughts fill me with delight. I like stories that have endings. The endings need not be happy, so long as they are there. In fact sad endings have considerable appeal. Sadness is not deplorable, and not at all incompatible with joy. In fact the two probably depend on one another for their effects. Looking at the moon and that long future the sight of it has evoked I can imagine the dead, dusty Earth, and the dust being the end of all the stories it told, including me.
Maybe some as yet undeveloped life form will visit this dead planet far in the future, and some of the dust they tread on (assuming they have something foot-like) will be some part of me. My story will be long over, but then my dust will become part of some other story. I like the thought that stories end, but story does not.
Hello, future life from that will never see this message. How is the pale, distant moonlight on the night you stir a bit of carbon dust that was once part of me?
( Sunday Verse )
That oak could easily outlive me, and the ancient moon will probably still be here (though more distant from Earth) when the sun goes nova several billion years hence and wipes out whatever life might be on this planet then. Then the paled moon will orbit lifeless Earth and reflect the dimmed, dwarf sun's wan light for ages and ages more, as the universe expands away from this spent star system.
These thoughts fill me with delight. I like stories that have endings. The endings need not be happy, so long as they are there. In fact sad endings have considerable appeal. Sadness is not deplorable, and not at all incompatible with joy. In fact the two probably depend on one another for their effects. Looking at the moon and that long future the sight of it has evoked I can imagine the dead, dusty Earth, and the dust being the end of all the stories it told, including me.
Maybe some as yet undeveloped life form will visit this dead planet far in the future, and some of the dust they tread on (assuming they have something foot-like) will be some part of me. My story will be long over, but then my dust will become part of some other story. I like the thought that stories end, but story does not.
Hello, future life from that will never see this message. How is the pale, distant moonlight on the night you stir a bit of carbon dust that was once part of me?
( Sunday Verse )
