Morning pours God’s plenty: Java sparrows
perch on plum trees, thrust their chests out, fill
their picture frame with song. Doorknobs blaze
effulgent, clothes on chairs disclose their folds,
shoes coalesce and share a shadow,
buttons glow. An open book allows
a single page stand wavering, recalling
that last monastic moment before sleep.
Nine hundred million miles and more across
the sterile void this waterfall of liquid
fire has plunged a headlong torrent, crashed
through fields of asteroids and stirred the storms
of Venus, eternally ordained to slant
this golden scripture on this bedroom wall.
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