Poetry Metaphysics Mythology Natural History Politics Poetry


Poetry: History


I am made of the dust of stars,
waiting on a lunar rockscape
to be stirred by the breath of God:
my time is not yet.

It has always been possible.  Even
before now, when nothing was,
everything was yet possible.
With the cooling of nothing, the possible
became probable, and I
exploded into being in the same convulsion
which made other possibilities
unlikely, or inconceivable.  I went,
as did you, from virtual to
           Now, we are, but not yet.
Dust of stars on lunar landscape,
waiting unnoticed through cold eternities
for the still, small whisper,
the breath of God, to make us dance.
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