You’re a blue ball when seen from space,
with a modest glow,
nothing like a star’s twinkle.
You rotate, orbit the sun,
but do it so slowly,
no one notices.
And you’re always
half in darkness, half in light,
like the ones who populate
Four billion on your last birthday.
And your chaotic beginnings
have cooled into a comfortable middle age,
with occasional hurricane stomach upsets
or volcanic brain farts.
Your old age, your death,
will not be pretty.
But, until then,
you’ll continue to be what you are,
a place where someone like me
can safely put his foot down,
breathe the air
and, most of the time,
not be killed by falling rocks.
I don’t blame you for the body,
that second-rate piece of machinery,
or for life itself.
You merely provide accommodation.
For that, at least, I thank you.
Nice mountain range by the way.