Maybe Our Souls Are Stars

Maybe our souls are stars—

gas where nuclei skirmish,

enormous shining spheres

on which our children wish.

Maybe our souls are kites—

hovering in the wind

a sweet bird on a leash

a blue jay’s favorite friend.

Maybe our souls are jazz—

music for ears and dance,

trombone, trumpet, sax,

red rhythms for romance.

Maybe our souls are words—

sounds, image, and meaning,

made up of lines and shapes,

breathing.

Maybe our souls are whispers—

voices in a vast,

all noise, lullabies,

heard at last.

Maybe our souls are stars.