by Anne Gruner
Your radiant gaze
belies your violent birth—
a cataclysmic collision
delivering you from the bowels
of Mother Earth into
her synchronous embrace.
As asteroids pummeled your baby face,
lava cracked open your eyes—
Imbrium and Serenitatis—and forced
the smile of Nubium and Cognitum.
Your mother found you precious.
You shielded her from solar winds
and nurtured her atmosphere,
tugging her primordial soup
back and forth to salt life
upon her terra firma.
Now, as you age and find yourself
somewhat more distant,
you still stabilize her Goldilocks tilt,
regulate her ebbs and flows,
and calm her mood swings
as maturity and abuse take their toll
on her temperate temperament.
And at long last, you reveal
your greatest secret—
water ice at your poles,
holding out the promise
you will help her denizens,
the dwellers of graying Earth,
reach for the stars.
Anne Gruner is a two-time Pushcart nominee whose poetry has appeared in numerous print and on-line publications including Amsterdam Quarterly Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Wayfarer Magazine, The New Verse News, Humans of the World, Spillwords, and Written Tales. A former career CIA analyst and lawyer, Anne lives in McLean, Virginia with her husband and two golden retrievers.
