on viewing the constellations

I dream of interstellar lace
celestial dancers whirl and burn
each constellation has its place

for as the seasons take their turn
pinpoint mem’ries mark the night
celestial dancers spin and burn

each glimpse of pure unearthly light
is ages old, yet still they spin
pinpoint mem’ries mark the night

as novas die, new beams begin
connecting--this vast ebb and flow
is ages old, yet still they spin

as dawn’s first light makes cobwebs glow
I trace the lines that cut the air
connecting this vast ebb and flow

as delicate as spider’s snare
I dream of interstellar lace
I trace the lines that cut the air
each constellation has its place.

form: terzanelle