If there’s a God, she might have made the admission
That faith is irrelevent, Her argument of perihelion;
Our glimpse of Her so far, tidal locked like the moon,
A fragment of what there’s to see, we’ll be shown more soon.
Fearful sceptics, point telescopes in sidereal time skywards,
When we should build microscopes, point them all inwards.
Disbelief creates a long winter of the soul, axial obliquity,
What seems like progress is in fact retrograde, orbiting nervously,
Unaware of Her motion, scarcely registering apsis,
Won’t notice that we’ve missed Her, enrapt in ephemeris.
Erik Kaisson 2018