Mechanics

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They tell us now 
That the darkness of space 
Is what’s left over, 

Heat from the one Big Bang, 
That light unfurling in all directions 
Is shifting toward the red. 

Then what do we make 
Of this ongoing 
Question of distance? 

The crickets, in perfect 
Synchronization, 
Mark how the temperature falls. 

The leaf, with its inborn 
Dream of escape, 
Swings lightly against the tree. 

At the end of the day, 
A quiet room, 
A house where the sentence unravels. 

And who is to say that what’s pure 
Or lost 
Won’t eventually rise from our sleep?