Nik Boyd   (for Helen)

What is the point of Life?
Or is Life even pointed?
Or perhaps oddly pointed,
or rounded out spherically
rather than pointedly?
Is it angular, or straight,
or curved like space-time
like She whose form
occupies the mind?

Points of Life may come and go and even so
may be remembered or forgot as is our lot in Life.
Alot of Life may seem pointless,
a passing time spent idly occupied
or fully and intensively engaged,
but to what end is this time waged?
And what price is ultimately paid
for time spent in and on this transitive stage?

Look up again at the night sky
and all the stars spread out in wonder,
these vibrant points of light shine overhead,
each star a distant sun that warms some place
in the otherwise cold darkness of space.
It's enough to make one shiver
and then feel warmed and to embrace
Life's vascular and muscular quiver
with all it's cellular and circular storms.

How inspired and blessed might we be
to see these bright suns so distantly?
What lessons might then make their points
and leave their marks upon our hearts?

Like the sun, which shines on all,
in every case must each find
a way of love for each found other,
and thereby weave a seamless garment of love
to clothe this world as it passes by and through
this otherwise chill and empty space.

We pull on each other with gravitational lenses
throughout these orbits of transitive tenses.
Orbits that pass close and pass by,
strange attractors and strange loops,
cycles and factors.

If passing too closely, we pull
and might thereby tear or wound,
but too far apart and we're no longer bound.
Then, we're like distant suns with only passing light,
no heat, no friction, no touch, only silent regard,
only the gravitational dance of space itself.

We all adopt stances as
we move through our dances.
So, what are the chances
we'll survive the changes?

What measure of love fills a happy life
with so many friends and children of the heart?
Each love a close person that warms the beated heart
with Life's rhythm run round our veins
with pulse and patter that ring it again.
All these already wounded hearts
with wonderous flows and awe-filled flaws

A chevron of love invades the space of loneliness,
pointedly piercing each heart with poignant passes,
pithed by an arrow vertex, no error while hollowed out,
hallowed core full and encircled with light,
a whole body halo with points of radiance
traversed and not spoken,
but filled and feeling fervently,
fermented and drunken on a heady froth
of incandescent breath and baptism.

What dimension embraces this fullness, this extraordinary witness
that wits fondly found and slide sideways around?
What extremities invite passage through this lighted and ignited place?
Was there ever a moment more torn asunder and rung like thunder
or wonder struck by the aweful grace that found us living under
such burning radiance of spiral descent,
fractured down, but still singular of source,
shattered, stretched, and layed out across the body's courses?

What greater motive for love could possibly found us
than the surety that death will hound us?
And when the moment finally overtakes us anyone
and once again we're lost in time and its Mystery,
will it be grave and dark or vanished in brightness?
Will we slide with ease upon the light
or struggle for comfort even in these final ends
launched at last into the heights of the starry night?