Tycho Brahe in his laboratory The sun vexes this earth, spiraling at snail pace
around our terra firma like the mongoose circling the snake.
In my sacred den, awake for hours I entrust my time
to the fruits my instruments yield.

I will stand these hours as what the eye sees
is foreshadow of position and action. Equations
are to be plucked from the stars by my devices:
globe, armillary, gargantuan quadrant—all are the tunnel,
the sieve the heavens pass through.

The heavens, more corpulent than I, able to grant wealth
that rivals any king, are slates scrawled with multi-lingual
alphabets. Were I to rest one night, what single shred
of comet, tail-spin of star, or tiny key to Cassiopeia
would I miss?

Copyright © 2008, Janie Hofmann

Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons

Janie Hofmann lives and writes in Vancouver, BC. She has two fish, a budgie and an old tabby cat. When not writing, she can usually be found in her garden. Her work has appeared in Aoife's Kiss, Word Riot and Static Movement, and will be coming up in Scifaikuest and Tales from the Moonlit Path.