The Universe Wishes
Each year the spinning earth slows down a fraction,
from the friction of the seas upon its skin,
so by the law of conservation of momentum,
the moon slowly creeps away on tip-toed feet.
The sun grows cold, its failing heart blushed gold,
expanding to embrace the grace of orbits and this place
that once was its benevolent and cared-for child.
I stare into the sky,
screw my face and make a wish;
wish, that I come true.