Rock of all, my marble, stone

of my tomb and my stairs. More firm

than granite in mountains, you are older

than immortal diamond and gold.

My body is putty, a tiny blue planet

in the dark, hollow halo of space.

Billions of bonfires are specks

in your eye, maker of fabulous galaxies

far from earth, and all burning. My heart

burns slowly, unnoticed, as gold burns,

even novas I’ve never seen.

I’m numbed by the buckshot of stars,

trillions of tons in each one. When the air

I’m made from is ash, only dust I’ll become.

And go when You call, where You are,

stone of my tomb and my stairs.

—Walt McDonald