(where the planets sit and reminisce about the bang and the newest scandal about the Eagle Nebula),
(where birds can’t swim and the sun is crisp),
Way up there you’ll find the anvils,
The places they use to make sparks.
When too much fluff is cluttering up the place,
The smith grumbles over to his anvil
(he had to skip breakfast just to arrive on time)
And begins to pound.
The audience gathers and sways in anticipation,
Eating honey roasted peanuts.
The hammer comes down on the anvils
And sparks glide softly down the tunnel.
Then the fluff is sufficiently unforgiving;
The smith drops it to decompose
With a crackle and a whisper.
When the fluff no longer clutters,
Away goes the anvil,
And the molten stuff is pored out,
Still glowing, sometimes, into the sky,
Where a child picks it up
And ties it snugly about her waist.