I Wish I Could Fly Into the Sun

Past the clockwork moons and the rusted sands of Mars,

Away from the tick-tock of the porch-swing earth,

And the cold, indifferent dust of the quiet stars.

I’d trade this settling, summer-heavy air,

The ticking mantels and the porch-light gleam,

For a rocket forged of silver, brass, and glass,

To wake at last from this terrestrial dream.

Up through the blue, where the high swallows drown,

Beyond the thin atmosphere and the edge of the sky,

Into the furnace of the great, golden eye,

Where shadows perish and the dark must die.

To strike the match of that blinding, ancient sphere,

To flash like autumn leaves in a sudden, brilliant flame,

And leave behind the heavy gravity of years,

Without a memory, without a sorrow, without a name.

Just a moth drawn upward to the final, brilliant light,

When all the winding, earthly days are done.

Before the frost can take the dandelion fields,

I wish I could fly into the sun.