The AstronautS

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Two-hundred-fifty-two-thousand miles

Minus the span from your swollen heart

To the silhouettes your fingers make
In the soft light of this bloom-blush moon;

That value is the reach of my love.

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I do my dreaming now with wide eyes
But I still lie down each night when you do,

After the alpenglow quits the mount

And those western seaboard beacons flare.

Are there blossoms tangled in your braid?

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I know sometimes you braid the moonlight;

I move to eclipse Los Angeles.

There's a wind-thrown tree in Joshua Park

Held aloft by the one beside it
And its dry bones still bear hammock scars.

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In the new earth dark I see these, too:

Berkeley erubescent for the fog
And Cherry's headstone drenched with dewfall.

Ten meters per second per second

Whether clothed in ice or otherwise.

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I hope he cradles your innocence,
That when he sees you reach he moves near

And his breath on your cheek pledges Spring.

We endure from final frost to first;

Sometimes fruit falls to preempt the cold.

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She's been teaching me how to find you

And when she reaches I move near
So we might share a common prospect.

There are blossoms braided in her hair

And her breath on my cheek is true Spring.

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We count three beacons north to Portland 

Then she shows me how to span the dark:

You'll wake to petals on your pillow.
I can hear the small sounds of her smile;

Now she's making angels in the regolith.