For I will consider my Star Sol.
For I am the servant of this Living God and daily serve her.
For at the ﬁrst glance of the glory of God in the East I worship in my way.
For this is done by ﬁxing espresso and watching the pinkening light on The Shard.
For then she waves her warmth across the scene and lifts the hearts of those who took a Night Bus at 4 a.m. to clean HQs.
For she tickles the orbitals of foxes in their stride and hies them home.
For having risen and settled into her groove she begins to consider herself.
For this she performs in eleven degrees.
For ﬁrst she does the Planck to strengthen core stability.
For secondly she runs a malware scan for comets closing in.
For thirdly she completes the paperwork for eclipses total, annular, and partial.
For fourthly: ﬂares.
For ﬁfthly she sorts her sunspots into pairs.
For sixthly she gives neutrinos Priority Boarding.
For seventhly she referees the arm-wrestling match between the upstart fusion and gravity.
For eighthly she weaves ﬂux ropes and thinks up skipping games.
For ninthly she degausses her plasma screens.
For tenthly she is proﬂigate with her photons.
For eleventhly: star jumps.
For having considered herself she will consider her neighbors.
For she runs a cloth around the ecliptic to make it gleam.
For she oils the wheels of any planets gliding there.
For she sends invites out to wallﬂowers in the Oort cloud.
For she issues shadows for children to dodge as they make their way to school.
For she shakes out her blankets for devotees of helioseismology.
For when she takes her prey she plays with it to give it a chance.
For one planet in nine escapes by her dallying.
For in her morning orisons she loves the Earth and the Earth loves her.
For she is of the tribe of Tyger! Tyger!
For she hands out coloring books to chameleons in the morning.
For when it is time to rise she blushes to be seen at so intimate an hour.
For when it is time to set she is crimson ashamed to run out on us.
For though she neither rises nor sets she thinks it best that we believe so, so that we can take our rest and fuel our waking with anticipation.
For she lifts oceans over mountains without thinking.
For she tries to solve the puzzle of the weather, placing this here and that there and attempts to even out the air.
For she is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For she’s a stickler for solstices.
For she booms like a woofer for those that can hear.
For she cares not what lives as long as all live.
For she takes her time.
For she lenses the light from distant stars to swerve it into our sockets.
For sometimes in the winter haze she’s as pale as a lemon drop and lets us watch her bathe unpunished.
For she never calls in sick.
For her colors are open source.
For every raindrop’s an excuse for Mardi Gras.
For she will work on her drafts for a million years and release them typo-free.
For she will lash out and then regret the hurt.
For she promises radio hams jam tomorrow.
For your power grid is a cobweb she walks into when she steps off her porch.
For she kept mum through the Maunder Minimum.
For her behavior is deﬁnitely “on the spectrum.”
For she keeps dark about dark matter but she deﬁnitely knows something.
For she plays Miss Prism in The Importance of Being Furnaced.
For she offers board and lodging to Turner’s angel in the Sun.
For she made a great ﬁgure in Egypt for her signal services.
For she can fuse the wounded parts of a broken heart and release the lost mass as hope.
For she spins plates to create auroras.
For she leaves clues all over the place: some cryptic, some quick, some general knowledge-based.
For she is hands-off.
For she tends to micromanage.
For she lays down squares of light for your pets to sleep in.
For she turns a blind eye to all the creeping, swooping killers of the night but leaves a Moon-faced night-light on.
For her sunquakes ﬂatten no buildings, gridlock no cities, disgorge no refugees.
For she is not too proud to dry your smalls.
For she gives us heliopause and time to rethink disastrous decisions.
For Ray-Bans.
For she polarizes opinion.
For her secrets are waiting to free us.
For she appreciates Stonehenge and visits every day.
For she sets herself by the grid of Manhattan.
For she will kill you with the loving of you.
For she can shine.

poetry-magazineFrom “Sunspots”

From “Sunspots”