(to my Grandfather, Milton B. Young)
there is a planetarium in my head
where stars in their tinfoil whirr overhead
and I am a tiny queen of the stage props
devised to emulate the sun and the moon;
if I blur my eyes to a state of dream
all the star wheels can be seen
for Spring and Summer and
the Winter Constellations
the subtle maps of Autumn I withhold from this poem
so that I may remain on earth a little more gold and secretly
and all this is a kind of birth recurring
like the paper revolving charts
our Grandfather brought home for us one day
to my sister and I as though he were handing us
the universe one summer
with his mysterious smile
his fervent adoration of the Space Program
so I turn my inner skies
so many years later
in charge somewhat
of my own theater and surmise
or know outright, if I am patient for awhile
as God was patient in His "Let There Be Light"
as compared with my subordinate clause of
"let there be twinkliness"
all the stars will come clear
and all the light years.
mary angela douglas 1 september 2022;27 february 2023
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