You Poem by Roy Ballard

What is made of all the scars
and residues of blown-up stars
set in a world of dust made new,
condensed upon a spot of blue?
You, you are!

The moon has minted silver bars;
its midnight rainbows end in jars
and crocks of gold; this might be true
but you are.

The mountains know not the chamois;
the sky is ignorant; the stars
lit up for worlds they never knew;
they grew no wiser as they grew
but you are.