A Story
--Nina Bogin 

August night. The sky unwinds
its skeins of light. 

The tiniest stars
slip through our fingers, 

galaxies rest on our palms.
Layer on layer of blackness, 

drifts of white
to plunge our hands in, 

shake out like feathers,
flurries of stars 

familiar and untamed.
It’s a story being told, 

forever
at this very moment. 

No matter that I can’t understand.
Wordless, I begin 

all over again,
in a newfound language 

where everything
is waiting to be named.