The mark of me

Take my hand and you will find

more than calloused archipelagos

and bowing tributaries,

the etched and embossed reminders

of bygone endeavors, exertion and existence,

cradling the world in their crevices.

More than earth, you will also find ether,

an iridescent nebula, born of brushstrokes

bruising the expanse beneath my thumb

where Venus meets Mars, the birth of their union

and the mark of me.

Steeped hues that surrender to the seasons,

a fevered summer flush that fades

from vermilion to violet blush

when the first verglas of winter

glazes my open palm,

the one outstretched toward you.

Take my hand and you will see

a palette of chameleonic colors made

not by embers, ink or illness,

but by a supernova in the womb

that imbued its brilliance into this oddment,

this oddity of space and earth alike,

this celestial mark of mine.