When a solar-mass star runs out of fuel to burn . . .
it swells in size and transforms into a red giant. . .
it becomes increasingly unstable
https://www.astronomy.com/science/how-will-the-sun-die/
Set, sun, I’m tired of your demands.
I understand your fear of decline; it is late
in the day—five billion years late.
Panicked, you insist I worship you at last.
You ignore hints to go home when I start
emptying ashtrays. You gobble shade
along with cheese board debris.
You leave me nowhere to stand.
You’ve always been at the center, crying
“I deserve it, I gave you light.” We all
want unconditional love and see
our chances dimming. We all need to be
stopped before we turn into a black hole.
Still you go on “converting hydrogen
into heavier elements” and laying
that heavy stuff on me. Could we talk
in the morning? I ache for the shadows
to lengthen and the breeze to come up.
