The earth is stretched around its corners—tight,
a spheric ship that travels through the seas
of stars and roiling nova bursts that freeze
or burn the thinning air around them, bright.
And yet it journeys on, ship-shape and right
with all precarious cargo: like the trees,
and every crawl crustacean in the seas
that hurtle fathoms round and through the night.
And ever thus this spinning dance of life:
that rich and wild chlorophyll of strife
still uses well that great beginning breath.
And even now while balanced on a knife,
this world, endowed with din and damage rife
can shout for joy for life still lives—through death.