Whose Garden

Gaping star in furthest space,
bridge-stone wormhole to weirder
galaxies among great gaseous
glacial columns of purple,
angled piers where new tenants
whiz like firework wheels
and spin out to dense openness.

To what spherical end do
you intend to explore,
charting your personal way,
transmuting divine fire
into gargantuan dreams,
and spending your life running
until you are called home again?

Good star,
tend to your garden,
every flower your own pride.
Not one springs without your leave.
You count the blossoms nightly,
confused lady of the sky—
whose good garden have you blessed?

February 3, 2026