The Big Bang as the moment of creation
is impossible to fathom,
whether in a morning coffee shop,
the shower, or listening to a lover’s rant.

All dissolves into a metaphysical dream,
Hamlet’s to be or not to be.
The search for origin as elusive as drowned
Atlantis.

Yet, there is marvel in thinking, consciousness
as an anthropic principle, that infinity
began some 13.8 billion years ago
as some great ghostly thought

manifested in the minds of those
swirling among receding galaxies
from the vantage point of a pale
blue dot etched against a nameless black.

That the miracle of a sunflower, your
neighbor’s dog, lost lovers, a flea
riding that same dog’s back
burst like an autumn seedpod

from some singular nothing,
infinity produced like sipping
morning coffee from an invisible
drop that can never be touched.

All that was, is, and will ever be
from the birth of an Einstein
or Hitler, to the cancellation of
the latest sitcom,

recorded in expanding gas
like an 1880s voice etched
on a wax cylinder—
and to know that when

immortality is pondered,
Nature’s law demands that
matter and energy are neither
created or destroyed,

only change form,
that the particled pixels
making up the avatar
that you ride

like a knight of old
are as ancient
as the soundless
birth of universe,

so that in the end, is your
beginning, the beginning
your end—creation’s
eternal song.