We now know the sun is a star eating
itself from the inside as it burns above
a sky we perceive as blue because tiny
molecules of air scatter short blue
waves of light in every direction, but
spring still seems to creep in slowly
in this northern zone, rising from ooze,
then sinking back to frozen mud, as if
a goddess and her entourage progressed
or stalled according to some ungovernable
will moved by neither sacrifice nor prayer.
Steve Klepetar lives and writes in Saint Cloud, Minnesota, where he tries desperately to hold on to his dwindling hydrogen atoms.