A Certain Moment of a Passing Hour in the Uncertain Cosmos

Six oʼclock falls over
the afternoon
in windy March on the way to night.
The sun slides low
through venetian blinds,
frosting my wrinkled hands with glittering white.
The pine branches spread dirty arms,
rock, moan and bow,
swayed by their god on high, sparkling and scary.
Previewing their planetary skyshow,
the far reaches of the universe
fling empyrean feats of firmament
on my picture window, afterimage of time after time,
evanescent episode of the everlasting view.