He built a scope from antique salvaged glass
And watched the winter constellations pass.
Each night he traced their arcs across the black—
The light accepted questions, sent none back.

He memorized a thousand ancient pages,
The gathered certainty of countless ages.
At eighty, words dissolved before his eyes—
The knowing crumbles when the knower dies.

He swam against the current all his years,
Through tides of loss and salt-sting of his tears.
At last he reached the shore and turned to see—
The current bore him where he came to be.

At last he set the instruments aside,
The lens, the books, the oars against the tide.
He sat in silence, done with asking why—
And for the first time, heard the ocean’s cry.

He found no god, no answer carved in stone,
But learned that no one bears the dark alone.
He held a stranger’s hand and felt it shake—
Two bodies breathing for each other’s sake.

The stars stayed silent. Still, he lit the lamp,
Walked out into the cold, the dew, the damp.
No map, no gospel, nothing underfoot—
Just one step, then another, taking root.

He chose to love without a guarantee,
To plant a tree he’d never live to see.
No star nor scripture told him what it’s worth—
He made his meaning from the silent earth.

And when at last his breathing lost its fight,
He let his eyes go gentle into night.
He’d made no scar the cosmos had to keep—
Just held, and walked, and loved, and earned his sleep.