At the center of the sun a ball of iron spins in one place, unseen;
The black anchor of our heavens living under the firestorm of life.
Millions of miles away, patches of dirt, soaked in morning dew, blossom;
Touched by the light of flares flung in the course of entropic combustion.
Clovers and wild violets amid wild grass; a foreign seed a plant once fashioned;
It has grown into a bitter gourd vine; floating over the city line.