The lake lies flat and gray.
The husband kisses his wife goodbye.
The sister is angry, the brother sick,
the mother old, her legs willing but weak.

Who knows who I am,
what I think or dream,
how I gather hope from a crocus
with the sun in its throat?

I can’t see the dark matter
behind and beyond what is,
but I marvel at how it shapes the universe,
unowned, and unknown.

Maybe dark matter is what we become
after we die and drift into space,
invisible, 
amid the other invisible ones,

in a cosmos that waits for us to cry out,
as all beings cry out—

in silence.