I am so interested
by the movement
of the planets.
Even though we can’t feel it,
our little earth
is careening through space
in ceaseless revolutions
around the sun.
Maybe the sun
is like Pharaoh of old,
giving audience
to earth’s incessant imploring
to be let go,
but always hardening its heart
at the last minute,
requiring one more
humiliating year of orbit
and promising that
really,
no-really-I-mean-it,
this
is the last one.
Maybe only God’s power
could part the tide
of the sun’s gravitational pull
and let the earth
roll straight through
to the freedom of deep space.
But the earth
may covet freedom rashly.
Space is cold.
And it may overlook
how important
its endless subjugation
actually is
for puny humans
trying to make sense
of their stay
on a little planet
careening through space.
We wouldn't have
days or nights
or seasons
or years
if the earth
weren't willing
to bear its servitude.
It’s
okay, Earth,
if
Pharaoh never lets you go.
Maybe orbit
isn't so bad.
After all,
we get to celebrate my birthday
every
time
that
you and the sun
stand
in relation to each other
the
same way that you did
on
the day I was born.
If
God parted the sea
and
we went forward
to
greater things—
the
life of a vagabond
in
the wilderness of space—
how
would I ever know
how
old I am?
Who’s
to say
we wouldn't wander
in
the wilderness
for
40 years?
And
since we wouldn't have
years
anymore,
who’s to say
that
we wouldn't wander
like
strangers in a strange land
forever?
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