Age Of The Sun
Ten billion years
and we are halfway there, they say:
Four point six billion years
consumed already,
and not a thing to do
about it.
The sun, eating itself, roaring
like nothing we can understand,
the kind of burning that inhales
worlds, should they stray close enough.
Our home world in a blissful spin,
our blues and greens so comforting,
for now.
The time will come. Our star
will fall into itself and
fall into itself again,
the howling, blinding mouth
become a diamond—
small and cold and bright.
Then gone.
Ten billion years,
what will we know by then?
Perhaps that nothing stays,
not even
light.
