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a celestial filigree
A Celestial Filigree
Not loud like fire, but braided in hush—
a silver hush, spun fine
as comet-thread through midnight.
The stars aren’t scattered,
they’re sewn— each one a knot in lacework
stitched by light’s patient needle.
Orbits do not wander.
They embroider.
The sky isn’t empty,
it’s carved.
Galaxies unfurl like scrollwork—
spirals drawn in breath,
nebulae curling like ash into design.
Even gravity moves with care,
winding space-time around itself
in invisible curls.
We look up and call it chaos.
But look long enough— and
it’s all fretwork, all pattern.
The universe wears beauty
too fine for hurried eyes.
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