Bio Note: I haven’t the faintest idea how to decide which poem is my best. What does that even mean? There are too many different ways to define “best.” At the moment, the one below most captures the truth I feel about things. Tomorrow or next week or next year, it will likely be different.
In six billion years,
babies wrapped in yellow blankets,
new bean shoots and crocus tips poking through mud,
a sudden spew of newborn seahorses—
all gone, exploded by the sun’s nuclear furnace.
after the blast,
we are reborn.
we bloom as fluorescing nebulae.
Glorious glowing garnet, cobalt, jade
across the universe:
Beauty: I will reawaken as beauty.
I need no other God.
© 2019 Laurel Peterson
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