Rumpelstiltskin

My poems of late are mantras

ruled by light,

a golden repetition of days.

By night, it's words,

each word its own silky creation:

bright golden hair.

These words attract the eye,

are at best a surface.

That much we know.

Words also are unanswered questions.

Words forever go

sent by suns and stars into space

and are traced far out

to the ends of our own minor galaxy.

and then beyond

nevermore again to return,

just gone,

just gone.