Wednesday, December 4, 2013


A barrel-arch of clouds hangs
in the desert,
supporting the crushing weight
of the clear blue sky above
on columns of fine rain
(though small,
they are many).
Above the gray,
above the blue,
beyond the black,
hang stars
huge, hurtling through space,
whirling worlds in their wake,
on some of which hang clouds,
cathedrals of methane,
catacombs of sulfur,
drizzles of nitrogen chilling distant dust;
is there anywhere else
so fine as here?
Green, blue, brown, and gray,
a palette fit for a king,
the King of Kings,
in fact.

     When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
        the moon and the stars, which you have set in place,
    what is man that you are mindful of him,
        and the son of man that you care for him?

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