Even as we all are hurtling
apart, following diverging vectors,
there is comfort in the circling.
Even our anchoring sun, who hectors
the planets, orbits in a greater sky.
We all circle and are circled by.
We seek the very center that we fly from—
the power that both created and exiled
us into this annihilating cold.
Will we ever be reconciled?
Is there hope for hearth and welcome,
for the return of the wandering child?
Hope to enter, for gravity to overcome,
for a great ingathering, and care for the old,
for warmth on our backs and a center that will hold?