Birth

The stars await our tardy ships
while by distracting rings and blips 
our eyes are caught in glowing glass. 
We gaze no more on Heaven's bliss—
how many chances shall we miss
before our final chance we pass?

Unto the stars, at least desire bend
so future generations we might send.
Our lovely earth should not be left lonely
in endless lights where never breath is drawn. 
Our love for her should drive us up and on, 
or else, stillborn; mother in name only.

A grandmother, and great, 
if we are not too late, 
of many earths to be. 
How many worlds and skies
could man one day realize
upon a starry sea?