For Jessica, My Daughter Mark Strand (1934-2014) Tonight I walked, lost in my own meditation, and was afraid, not of the labyrinth that I have made of love and self but of the dark and faraway. I walked, hearing the wind in the trees, feeling the cold against my skin, but what I dwelled on were the stars blazing in the immense arc of sky. Jessica, it is so much easier to think of our lives, as we move under the brief luster of leaves, loving what we have, than to think of how it is such small beings as we travel in the dark with no visible way or end in sight. Yet there were times I remember under the same sky when the body's bones became light and the wound of the skull opened to receive the cold rays of the cosmos, and were, for an instant, themselves the cosmos, there were times when I could believe we were the children of stars and our words were made of the same dust that flames in space, times when I could feel in the lightness of breath the weight of a whole day come to rest. But tonight it is different. Afraid of the dark in which we drift or vanish altogether, I imagine a light that would not let us stray too far apart, a secret moon or mirror, a sheet of paper, something you could carry in the dark when I am away.