Our planet, our society and we ourselves are built of stardust - Carl Sagan
I freeze on the threshold, assaulted by absence, instantly reckoning with “remains” inert, irreversible. No Jim, spark no longer metaphor. Where is he?
Could he be stardust, essence not extinguished, recycled, reclaimed; cosmic energy-- life after death?
The ancients addressed the stars seeking connection, believing they controlled our fate. Now we know their origin, God’s Big Bang scattering the stuff of life
still falling-- carbon, calcium, iron, oxygen generating fields and forests planets and people. Why?
Centuries we’ve lain on the grass looking up, feeling awe. We are irresistibly drawn to them, astrology, astronomy, astrophysics story, song. Is it love?
What if each galaxy is an age of man, the older ones edging slowly out making room for the others, shining just long enough to collect its own-- eternal alchemy?
Jim’s writers called him Blue Darter after a swift-moving hawk never seen to light. Even swapping flesh for fame, he still is always everywhere.
He’s still always everywhere, swapping flesh for flame.
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