the turtle floats
mindlessly
one
with the cosmos
around it
buffeted
by the solar gusts
it’s painted shell
a work
of true beauty
glistening lights
reflecting back
into the void
of space
a reciprocating
pulse and hum
of phases

the turtle
is tired
millennia spent
with the burden
of ungrateful life
gently spinning
around the heart
of the sun
it’s bones
slowly mined
refined
made into
implements of war
that rage
endlessly
along the curved
shell

there is no
concern
what happens
should the turtle
expire
as all float
with reckless abandon
yet no
concept
of the stakes
it isn’t
the end of the world
as we know it
no
just life itself