Mine. Work. Hand. Our. Age. Stars…work
with ease, they shine and hand
their light so freely to our
world, and have done so from first age.
Yet, here’s no ode to twinkling stars’
work, that grace’ night sky, yours and mine.
Our mine-work—stars!—hands age! Mine
own, feebling, but they still work.
Face and form no longer make a star
of me; Beauty slowly hands
me over. Yet, no proclitic to certain age.
My fate alone? No, it’s all of ours.
Stars are mines. Age’s work hands our
lodes to us. Bless these veins of mine.
Where’s the Kingdom? Now? This age?
Almost the theme of this here work,
Yet, no opus to “at hand.”
Our seeking Seers still look to stars.
Age’s stars are handy. My! Work star-
lit phrase to eat. In gentle melds our
words taste sweet. For more money in my hands,
what to provide or sell of mine?
Wait, is this a verse to noble work?
Star nude in films at this age?
Hands age; stars work. Our mine ages,
but, still gives, thank fortune’s stars,
and God, such mercies work.
Angels have Heaven, the Earth’s our
land, yet, no rhyme to “theirs,” “yours,” “mine.”
Age holds big blessings in small hands.
Work, and Sage Mystery: our hands
turn grapes into wine, that ages
much as like ore in mind’s mine,
or what Clever Muse has writ’ in stars.
Hear now what sweet labor is; not our
hands make word-play work.
No toil of hands in poem work,
Such joy in every age of ours,
To mine words from the stars.