What About Them Stars
By John Herlihy

There they are just sittin’ there,
Shining through the winter trees,
Not the warm caress on the cheek,
Like everyone thought them to be.
They brush the eyes with star dust,
As we look up at them, imagining.

They look the same this tonight,
As they looked every other night,
Constellations immortalized myths,
They never move about as snow drifts.
They are cold, calculating, uncaring;
They shine distant light, unsparing.

Civilizations have risen and fallen;
World cultures have come and gone.
Ancient trees are but earthly seedlings,
Up against distant suns as yet unborn.
Wayward asteroids killed the dinosaurs,
Yet the stars continue to live and thrive.

And yes, they still shine down upon us,
As we come and go, but never survive.
They whisper to themselves, not us;
They lisp in the voice of a little child.
The sibilant sweetness of their voice
Seem destined by their own choice.

He stood there looking up and away,
There in the cold, there in the quiet.
How cold and quiet it must be there,
Inside the heart, his emotions ran riot.
What good were they up there, anyhow,
Shining down as they do upon the brow.

We are alone despite the presence of stars,
Even the stars make no difference to fate.
He stood there under them feeling old, old;
Their light feeble and weak, and he cold, cold.
If these meager specks are eternal, then so are we
Burning dimly in the firmament, where all can see.

He took a half pint bottle from his hip pocket,
Lifted it high and toasted merrily the stars.
They did not condescend to look upon him;
Instead, their light fell into the golden liquid.
To mingle with the fiery spirit contained therein,
Burning their way down as his head began to spin.