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In Praise of Mystery: A poem for Europa.

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Arching under the night sky, inky with black expansiveness, we point to the planets we know.

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We pin quick wishes on stars.

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From Earth, we read the sky as if it is an unerring book of the universe, expert and evident.

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Still, there are mysteries below our sky: The whale song, the songbird singing its

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call in the bough of a wind shaken tree.

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We are creatures of constant awe, curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom, at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow.

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And it is not darkness that unites us, not the cold distance of space, but the offering of water, each

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drop of rain, each rivulet, each pulse, each vein.

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O, second moon, we, too, are made of water, of vast and beckoning seas.

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We, too, are made of wonders, of great and ordinary loves, of small invisible worlds, of a need to call out

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through the dark.