Social orbit
Sometimes a planet, sometimes a moon
The other day I took to the alley as crisp sky opened above. A neighbor’s trees turn yellow and red, offset by the always green spruce. I was thinking about my place in things. How at times I’ve nested closely within groups and at times hovered far away.
I picture galaxies and gravity exerting its pull. I wonder if, during some social phases, I was mostly an asteroid or a moon. Absorbed by magnetic planets, my own pull faint and off-course.
Perhaps it takes being flung far from orbit to develop gravitational force. To find planets with whom we can create solar systems that align with our path. Some social phases were not always the happiest. Lost in a crowd, my attention dictated by stronger suns.
There are times that require reflecting light on another’s ripe earth. When I am called to be someone’s moon. A phase, it can’t be everything. The time comes to shift into a planet, too.
For anyone who traverses star systems, you know the loneliness it brings. The loss of celestial alignment and gravitational law.
What’s harder to remember, from the outside, is that even orderly systems continue to change. Held in delicate balance and tilt.
Looking back, I forget the instability of careening between giants. I remember only bliss. I forget the absence of body, my movement governed by others’ whims.
Overhead a star explodes, engulfing the nearby planets. Another galaxy dies and rebuilds. A comet falls and I see it, and for a moment I remember how it felt.
