Genesis 1:16
The moon, sun’s lesser princeling, rules the dark.
Good-citizen stars slip into their arcs.
They hum the hours trav’ling each season’s light
never twice the same way night after night.
Summer and winter, at harvest, in spring
they take different routes as though on the wing
while moon, as dark’s ruler, walks the same beat
between the horizons in cold or in heat.
Sky’s stellar pilgrims change and divert
or stand on their heads without getting hurt,
inventing courses to joy’s journey’s end:
that infant-god whose cross-wise routes will fend.
Fools follow the moon in lust of bright shine.
They glow in its power, believe it divine.
The wise chase a star. Its blink and strange dance
lead to a feed trough by God or by chance or
Love’s happenstance.
More mark’d, more mapped, more certain and clear;
the ruler of night yet stifles the fear.
Less mark’d, less mapped, less certain, less clear
paths of the holy, the stars, the more dear,
who don’t govern or rule–just beckon and sign.
The wise test wisdom in trust, then surmise,
and choose their arcs, confiding their races
to mercy of stars, surprise, or graces.
All rulers of days, all rulers of nights
don’t hold a candle to Star of Delight.
In league with no pow’r in all creation,
wise find their homes without destinations.
