But UD likes this one best, by Jon Lang.
Before we go there: My own winter night sky tonight – viewed from my back deck in Garrett Park, Maryland – is blackly clear, with a large, full, bright moon. This cosmic clarity comes equipped, this evening, with very cold, very awakening, air. Like all those winter night poets, I’m stirred, and I’m lifted, out here, off the earth, to something acutely articulate; something post-human, and post-humous… Yet as it happens, I don’t know what the universe is saying — I only know I’m exposed, in my coatless, ghosty condition, to its voice. Wallace Stevens hears something of this with similar recognition and confusion at the seashore:
How often we draw back, detached from the world
Like a star, and thinking the mind a pure space
Imagine our fate somehow suspended – almost
As if, like a far eye, or a small fist
Of light, we might take the whole of it, coldly, in.
But ah, what a show … for nothing really stops –
And the further we fade, the more the smallest pain
Heightens, iced to a moon’s edge. O, could we just
See! How even without us the vanishing earth
Goes on, child without mother, bearing itself
Blindly toward spring! Would we still, like gods,
Think ourselves beyond it all? Now, shrinking
Within, we only at best mimick the dead,
Who have earned with a life that richer, darker distance.