Maybe life rode in on a comet
like a rodeo cowboy on a broncobuster.
Maybe the moon was knocked
right out of us. Maybe. Maybe.
TV tales are full of facts
drilled to us in lilting, sliding tones
of reassuring reasonableness.
I see photos enhanced from space
and rocks brought back
abristle with their age and distance.
All I learned and taught is lost
to the story now, abruptly changed.
A comet is a smudge in my eyepiece
with stories of enchantment,
while dirty snowballs hurl about.
We are rocked in treetops,
swinging in our infancy,
and the lullabies and nursery tales
tell us that down will come all
down will come all.