We are too young to cast down our jaded eyes, already
Tired of questing the sky, “Is there anybody out there?”
When truly, our precious little dirt ball is only part of
The first eight percent of earth-like planets ever formed.
With ninety-two percent yet to be born in the cosmos, most
Worlds like ours are just baby dreams in solar dust,
A twinkling suggestion in a stellar nursery until gravity
Makes a fist and crushes matter into a molten core.
Long after this early Earth has spiraled into a stupor
On man-made fumes or been cannibalized by the sun,
Immeasurable destinies will trace orbits in dark and bright
Spinning tangible creatures nothing like me, maybe a little—
I wait for you . . .
The rest of every other kind of us.
For even broken down into cold sidereal residuals,
These atoms will never stop yearning for another life.
S.E. Page is the co-editor of Young Ravens Literary Review and a Pushcart
Prize nominee. She has been published in journals including Connecticut River Review, Star*Line, and NonBinary Review. Page also writes novels
and blogs at iffymagic.com.