Resurrection
Even our own sun will, one day,
leave its ordained round of the sky
no longer crossing the Milky Way
or shining only on the
moon’s bright side.
But wandering off into the weeds
to lie down and rest,
Say to us—no, no you go ahead.
In the dark, waiting,
time will tumble
unstuck from the clock face.
We will forget
how to determine
lines of meridian.
We will imagine the histories
of the gods
that will come after us.
Until the new sun rises,
more rosy than golden.
A sun that dances
with the planets
and leads the moon on
a leash made of spider silk.
And we will watch as
it goes crooked
down the mountain side
carving a new path for the little
stars that spill after.
Published on The Laundry Line, 6 January, 2025.
