Backlit by the luminosity
The figure gazes into the unknown.
An unknown of darkness and light,
Of planets and stars.
Of galaxies and universes.
Of protons and electrons,
The possibilities seem endless.
After the crematorium’s blaze, what?
Green growth, floral array,
Some small brown scurrying thing,
And then in some far distant time,
Would he be cold; inert,
Or lit in nova’s hues, expansive,, expanding,
Scattered into the sphere
of a dozen distant suns.
To drift, to fuse, to become
Growth in other colors, spores,
Some small blue scurrying thing.
Or red, or orange, or colors not imagined.
I wrote this several years ago and submitted it to Asimov's poetry editor. I received a rejection telling me that it was sweet, but not what they were looking for. I'm not sure whether I ever published it here or on Open Salon. I don't think I had ever had anything I wrote called sweet.