a comedy of creation

We take this Sun for granted
our familiar nearby star, the furnace
for the eternal winter in which we spin
endlessly- and along the swath it makes

We take this journey, as if not moving,
we travel farther and faster than
anything man has created, barely imagined
in our comedy of creation, where
deep space is the greatest stage
for petty, earth-ish adventures

No, we take this wonder for naught
it would be better if we ought send smoke
blessings and song in offerings
to a god of sun, goddess of moon
acknowledge the debt we owe
to the alternative of lightless cold

where we would simply be
unmade things, like every bit of latent energy
a mere potentiality waiting,
waiting, and waiting for a spark
that lights a star.