A Sestina for the Galaxy

 Under the thick omnipotence of clouds, the light
grays and oranges and turqoises do not end
on this rock. The creeping lichen crosses
the hillside, the valley, the lake, a long
twisting trek to the sky,
to caress the Earth within its circle.
 
Upon the way the color circles
a tree, one of many stops made under the light
of a tawny sun behind drooping vapor in a sky
that gracefully turns to night, but not to an end.
The sienna bark wrinkles with the long
years, and the reverent, bent branches are crossed.
 
The tree is reaching upwards, crossing
its colors with the lichen and the circle
of curled, crunched leaves. Long
are the trails, but in between the lights
is a deep, dense darkness, ending
only beyond the horizons of all skies.
 
The empty ashen shades that dot the skies
are just as heavenly as they stretch across
as the colors. Negative space ends
many fears, as wide eyes circle
the Milky Way, seeking its lights.
In the mirrors of irises: a longing.
 
Here there are the imaginary paints, a long
way from Spring, blending with the steely sky
in a warped web of branches still bending towards light.
Eyes seek the fantastic here, too, crossing
In their thoughts of purple, blue blooms, a circle
of every hue – the world does not end.
 
No, here is not the end.
not as the wilting day turns to a long
night, not as we look up at the rocky, circling
band that trails through the skyscape,
or as gas and stardust cross
each other: when the galaxy arises in the twilight.
 
We wait for the circle back to day, the endless
patterns of time and light, as the galaxy mirrors its long
secrets from sky on earth, and the milky colors cross the trees and stones again.