When we got home, the sky was so full of stars, it was as if someone had stuck them on black paper just above the house. Or perhaps the house was the paper cut-out, a black outline against the jewel splattered sky? The Milky Way arched right over us – so close we could reach up and weigh each star in our hands, like ripened plums, and pick them if we wanted to. It was cold, and we leaned together, but still we stood there, heads back, mouths open, silent, watching the stars again. How many times have we stood there, gazing upwards? I can’t count the times, any more than I can count the stars.
White blossom ripens
Into silver fruit, tempting,
This is a haibun for Toni over at d’Verse. She’s asked us to write about the stars. Out here, where I live, there’s no light pollution (unless our neighbour leaves his kitchen light on). We frequently just stop and stare into space. And sometimes we look at the stars, too…