Future

This is a shout into the void,
into the blankness of
the next decades
in which I am written to exist.

My voice is but a whisper
as it travels
into a universe
expanding
infinitely
exponentially
where time has stretched us so thinly,
the grand dream of space
is nothing--
nothing to see
in one human lifetime.

Somewhere, sometime,
someone hears me.

She is asleep
on a rocking chair,
greying hairs falling over her eyes,
a faint smile on her lips, and
a storybook open on her lap.
There are muffled sounds
of children laughing and playing,
and the smell of garlic and ginger
sizzling in the kitchen.

She hears me in a dream,
my voice but a fond memory,
rinsed clean
of fear, and pain,
through the forgiveness of time.

She wakes, stretching her aching joints,
and she closes the storybook
about wishing on stars.

This is the universe's reply.