Many nights like this

I sat beside a darkened window

cradling thoughts of what

delivered you here.

Nights when snow fell

and Coltrane's mute tenor

signalled in the gloom,

A Golden Record, 

spiraling the consolations

of a beleaguered earth

into the silent cosmos.

I would wonder what

beacon you followed,

in your small white suit, 

buttoned to the chin,

luminous on the shores 

of a blue morning,

your wide eyes glimmering,

your tiny hand reaching out

looking for contact.