“It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.” –Wallace Stevens
Yes, yes, it does, this spinning marble of a rock, watery
Outside, fiery inside, hurtling through ice-cold space
As if nothing could stop it. And somehow the oceans,
Waxing blue as the sky, waning green as an emerald,
Flashing in the sun, foaming–fiercely, furiously—
Never peel off and sail away into the dark and sparkling
Blanket of space. Why not? Beauty holds together
The way life, once it has ended, keeps on beginning,
Day after day, century after century, aeon after aeon,
And if that’s not poetry, Mr. Stevens, I don’t know what is.
buildingapoem 
I guess you told him! And very nicely, I might add. 😀
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Your poem makes me proud to be an Earthling.
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And it’s not because you’re Wallace Stevens that you have all the answers. I like your riposte 🙂
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Beautiful imagery and movement. Love the last line 🙂
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Thank you!
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