I lay on my back in the grass
under a black overarching canopy
and saw, through a tiny opening,
one star through branching leaves.

Pale and small, as stars go,
its light could not illuminate
the night, but even so,
I fixed on it and made a wish.

It blinked, as if considering,
and then began to fall toward
the I that I was to land, soft
as a living hand, on my shirt front.

I dared not move as, coolly,
the star went to work, its light
a probing scalpel that touched
and prodded all around it

until my heart beat hot and rapid,
alive once more. "Now rise,"
the star commanded, and when I did,
there, in the grass, lay

the singed shape of my old self,
curled and shrunken like a leaf.
Far off, a light still burned
in a window. To call me back?

The star discerned my hope.
Again it spoke, answering
what I had not asked:
"I am your second chance."