Pale Blue Dot

The hierarchy of round things roots in eyes
Held close, so close that blinking heaves a gale;
Therefrom to lips and hips and on in scale
To full frame of embrace through drawn goodbyes.
From height of cirrus cloud horizons prove,
To some surprise, the most voluptuous curve,
Exhorting our return despite our nerve
Dealing where even eagles daren’t move.
Seen at full circle Earth takes all our mood,
Desire to overwhelming point of pain.
How shall we fare as homeland features wane
From her face, our wandering genius pursued?
With distance any curve bends its extreme—
That pale blue spear tip thrusts back our home sunbeam.