IN THE cold park solitary dog walkers
With puffing mutts
Chance the air, keeping their distance
While others grab and push in supermarket aisles.
The sun’s own corona
Like fool’s gold pie-in-the-sky
Is detached from our borrowed lives.
Nice morning, some say, with tremors in their hearts,
Trying to pay homage to this celestial orb,
Praise once reserved for God in earlier days
Now replacing His eternity
With a star that merely outlasts
Our brief flickerflash beneath.
Which is the cosmic reality, I wonder,
The human whining and the pining
Or the uncaring sun blankly shining.
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