Pronunciation: as-tro-the'-si-a
A vivid description of stars. One type of enargia.
They are the icy spikes of winter nights That prick the heart-warm blood with stilling chill They are God's whiskers, old and frosty white Or shards of milk the dipper big had spilled The stars are slow invaders edging in So cautiously we fail to see their aim Or else the stars are seedlings planted thin Within the loamy darkness, bright and plain. I cannot fathom distances or time Within the ceaseless broadcast of the sky Reducing fiery suns to words and rhyme Arrests, if for a moment, questions why We would be privy to such cosmic awe For I am here, confessing what I saw.