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They are the icy spikes of winter nights
That prick the heart-warm blood with stilling chill
They are God's whiskers, old and frosty white
Or shards of milk the dipper big had spilled
The stars are slow invaders edging in
So cautiously we fail to see their aim
Or else the stars are seedlings planted thin
Within the loamy darkness, bright and plain.
I cannot fathom distances or time
Within the ceaseless broadcast of the sky
Reducing fiery suns to words and rhyme
Arrests, if for a moment, questions why
We would be privy to such cosmic awe
For I am here, confessing what I saw.
—Gideon Burton
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