At the great pivot of the turning year,
we feed the fire against the unlit deep;
as Kronos lets the servant's cup draw near,
all rank dissolves, and only embers keep.
The dog star climbs to herald floods anew;
we float our flower wreaths and let them go.
Most of the cosmos hides beyond our view —
dark matter holds the worlds we cannot know.
A rumor of small heat, we still presume
the world is one or zero, night or day,
is yes or no, is silence or its bloom —
but spring slips in, and dusk has more to say.
So take the courage past the bolted gates,
where chance ignites, infinity awaits.