Thirsty rake come slake your Summer
on yellow lawns laid thick with wine.
Fill with fall your hungry fingers
before the trees knock bare and dry.
If I peer
through the window from my sleepless back
and think far into the sky I
fear the sheer depth of space.
So in daylight I steer clear,
dwell here where the roof is low
and the world is small.
Space is severe, and well causes
men to revere God.
Don’t miss those few quiet words in Genesis,
“he also made the stars”: he also made
those raging storms of nuclear fire
yellow as a feather from a falling weaver
bright bursts of power and light larger than the giant’s giant,
filling the galaxies to more powers over,
with billions in the arsenal.
And thick dark matter we
name without grasping
living suspended as the stars
deep in the knowledge of the Son of God.
O glorious, inconvenient sky,
your vast expanse demands
no small part of me.