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My turn for poetry
mood: 
calm
calmmusic: paul simon/she moves on
The Universe:
We'd like to understand,
but any piece, in the palm, gets out of hand,
Any stick, any stone,
-- How mica burns! -- or worse,
Any star we catch in pans of glass,
Sift to a twinkle the vast nuclear zone,
Lava-red, polar-blue,
Apple-gold (noon our childhood knew),
Colors that through the prism, like dawn through Gothic, pass,
Or in foundries sulk among grots and gnomes, in glare of zinc or brass.
Would Palomar's flashy cannon say? Would you,
Old hourglass, galaxy of sand,
You, the black hole where Newton likes to stand?
From The Observatory Ode, by John Frederick Nims