Ode to the Cosmic Stars

To an artist, blue is cold and red is hot,
to a scientist, however, this is just not.
To a scientist, the opposite is true
and it doesn’t matter what you
or your mother thinks,
the bluest star that winks
is perhaps the hottest thing she’ll ever see.

Streams of points of light
are reflected by the glassy water under the night.
The clouds pull away to release the vision of stars among the flight
and reveal the scent of the rhododendron flower.
The deepest nightly-morning hour
hides several of the Universes’ ultimate powers;
and yet, being wise is all we can ever hope to be.

Sometimes we see a star that is brighter than most.
Would it be wrong to ask what surrounds and calls it host?
If I went to the highlands with my love and gazed above,
we would see white all right, but no cardinal or turtle dove.
We’d see balls of plasmic heat and nuclear fusion;
we’d see worlds of fire and empty confusion.
But, is that all there is?

Multiverses and assumptionists may be real
but the suns among the sky are things you can feel,
feel with your mind, your genes, and your skin-covered zeal.
The stars are serene in their position,
secure in their composition,
divine in their retribution
towards all that is hers, and all that is his.

If I were to decide what should stay and what should go,
I’d surely choose the stars to remain thus, and know
this: I shall never keep that from what it does not desire.
The light in the eyes of a star’s billionaire fire
is beautiful and altogether comforting
for it is not the sight of a star, but its mothering
that keeps us so close to her.

One day our star will grow cooler and dimmer.
Her flame will simmer,
and her bipolar glimmer
will die away, die from this world today,
from this world yesterday,
from this world of everyday
and then the heat will be cooler.

The Earth will die, the Sun too,
and like-it-or-not, so will you.
The stars will sputter out
and the Cosmos won’t turn about;
the Cosmic world will expand and become eternally old.
Eternally old and seethingly cold.