NESTING SPACE OF THE SUN

Since the first fathers, men have dreamed

To live among the clouds.

They have longed to drive their carriages

Around the sun and race the streaking stars.

Men have wondered if a finger could touch the moon,

Or toes could dip into the endless pool of heaven.

But few dreamed that there were clouds

Beyond the clouds.

Painted, not with white, feathery brush,

Or strewn like cumulus cobwebs, 

But chiseled cosmically from the eternal granite

Of the Mind’s eye.  

And these streams are but the celestial refuse:

Dust, and dirt, and star-vomit.

Yet they blaze brilliantly with colors 

too terrible to describe.

Stretching across the lightyears, the clouds curl and churn,

cradling stars in a million-year gestation.