I painted stars on the ceiling tonight
Just like as a kid sticking neon stars everywhere to emulate what I saw
Or wondered most about and recreate
On my bunk bed ceiling
But now in fine gold and silver
On the arch of a floating monastic chapel. Same symbol kid to old man
Counting stars in mid air.
We will see how the stars dry
This time, and if my back makes it through
The recreations and iterations
Of echoing the making of the sky.
I’m sure Wisdom’s owl is watching
From The Branch which never breaks.
Along with me and a few kids who
Are still left on earth who believe

In eternal branches and dying stars
Which still shine.
Who awe and wonder at the living sky.
Sky and sea is all I’ve ever really stared well at, mysteries, as they say
Like a few people’s eyes I really gazed into, when I, like Daniel,
Fixed my gaze to gain understanding.
But with these stars on my ceiling
I feel less like God
And more like a child drawing stars with crayons made of gold.

I am finally building my tree house
From which to paint the stars.
Her face comes clean
The great billboard man
Finally expands and aligns with his stars.

I see a Face now finally
Coming clear. I see the face
Of Love in the stars finally
Descending through death
Into the life of this room.