I.

The sky is clear and the moon is crescent.

A hot summer wind blows.

I've come to sit alone, to clear my mind

of thoughts which spin and weave,

shuffle and stray,

and say nothing.



I think of the billions of stars, out there,

In the known universe. My mind is fragmented and

fills it's self with thoughts of Mayan Astronomers and inter-stellar

Voyages of the Zapotec

Thoughts of Newton's discovery of the spectrum of color found in a prism,

of Hubbell's notion of the expanding universe,

of Einstein- that Zionist gift to humanity.

of Thelonious Monk, and Duke Elligton, and Raymond Duncan,

folks to shook things and questioned. My thoughts

boil and steam, clatter and squeak until the image of Stephen Hawkin

appears.



Professor Hawkin,

sitting in his wheelchair, deformed, pained, struggling with speech,

exploring, searching, living his life,

writing, his A Brief History of time.

His life full of meaning and significance, celebrating questioning, becoming part of the

continuum covering the globe we call earth kin to the

Chinese and their knowledge of rocketry and to those Arabic thinkers

who gave us those powerful numerals we count.

Hawking, contributing; challenging; powerful.

The clear sky leads me towards the desert horizon, I've often called home.

I walk towards the horizon,

"My mother is dead, she taught me to question",

I say to the stars as I tip an imaginary hat to those who have asked,

"How those it work, this universe of ours?"



II.

This clear windy night humbles me.

I, a grieving man in awe with creation.

I raise my hands to the cosmos:

And cry.