Another Timely Descent

It never occurred to me
if Pluto should be considered
a planet. I can barely remember
the circumference of your sun,

let alone care to decide
if a mouse will outwait the owl,
or how this pedestrian will judge
the speed of that vehicle.

It’s all too much
detail sometimes,
such drama, even for me;
I have galaxies to spin—
they progress
faster than you know. Yet

through my absences,
you remain so earnest—
believing yourself to be
a favorite child, so sure
a Father must be near,
and in all things. I nearly believe

such faith can delay
the restarting of time,
that you might follow
the meteor’s arc,
willing it to burn away

until, a molten seed,
it crashes through your waiting palm.