There is no reason not to do so, I guess,
Her father told her years ago, meaning
Even a girl could lie out nights watching the
River of stars twist slowly overhead.
Eventually she'd made sense enough,
If quietly, of popular science books,
Star charts, reports in a yellow-bordered monthly,
Not to be much bemused by Venus' popping up
Only near two horizons on the ecliptic.
Reaching you her binoculars, she'd show you
Europa, Io, Ganymede, Callisto --
A string of pearls never still; or perhaps
Saturn's ovoid appearance, or jeweled
Orion's belt, depending on times and seasons.
No one she knew in that town was so into
Night, at least for gawking upward. She once drove,
Only herself in the car, to Palomar and climbed,
Tentatively, up a catwalk by a darkened window
To squint at the mammoth instrument in repose.
Old now. The years were kind enough; great job,
Dear friends, good spouse, grandchildren. Still,
Often she joins star parties. And then finds
Some pert lad at hand, showing his Andromeda.
Oh, she might say much! But lets him have his way.