Donal ThomsCappello

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We Pass In Orbit

We pass in orbit.
Rarely.
A predictable trajectory.
Formed from eons of foolish wisdom.
Your surface.
Reflecting my glare briefly,
My core.
Burning white hot.
Heat exchanged before too many light years stand between us.

I have often wondered what would happen
If I ever spun off-axis…
Hurling though space, without purpose, without course.
I suppose I would drift until I burned out.
Or, very possibly, smash into another star,
In a glorious display of light and energy
Studied, explained, and worshipped by any eyes it occasioned.

That would be something, I guess.

But what if,
In a strange anomaly,
I could somehow be drawn across vectors of space,
Escaping supernovas and black holes along the way,
Only to succumb to your gravity?
Surface perfectly smoothed with ice.
Where, upon impact, a bed of steam should arise,
Shrouding all visibility.
“It’s only steam”, observers would say,
Passing by, in their quest for colliding stars.

But we,
Hidden deep in fog.
As storms rage,
Lava meets water,
Tiny bacteria sprouting,
Whispering their knowledge of us to each other
As eons go by.

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