Sitting in the grass
under the stars
by the extinguished fire,
sitting there after the last trip
with a jug and a pail of water,
amazed at how long the wet logs
continue to sizzle,
mistaking a firefly in the grass
for a spark,
confusing, as I look up,
stars and fireflies,
thinking though, about my mother,
looking at the brilliant pricks of light
in the dark sky,
at the dark shapes of trees,
darker than the sky they stand up against,
thinking about how much I love
that which is no longer visible,
telling my mother out loud,
not loud, really, but very quietly
saying her name,
the personal name I had for her,
speaking it to the night sky
as our ancestors would
pray to those
who went before
and lit a path back
to the source.
~ By Anele Rubin