The Space Traveler and Starlight

When I see starlight I marvel
the thousands of years it traveled
to meet me, before I was even
conceived, and think myself
a sort of time vector—a very
short one—in the midst of lines
that stretch along farther than I
can imagine. Behind me are things
evolving which that star’s light
is on its way toward, and each will
know itself the final destination—
though the light threads itself
through them like a needlepoint:
stitches them and me together
in contemplation of an image
of the past. Tell me, human,
what does that make you think
of time? That light from a star
no longer existent on its way
to a creature not yet evolved
can thread you up; that you, pearl,
string along with creatures altogether
like and unlike you? If you were
a space traveler, it would sing
to you of comfort. If you were
a space traveler, you’d call it love.