THE BIRTH OF ALL TOMORROWS

There exists a recipe for dance,
whether at midnight tap and roll,
or elongated elegance of

a waltz and a walking stick.

Morning engenders a cessation,
no more caterwauling in solemn tones,
nor jit of dust or repercussion from moon,
the edge of felicity, like rudderless music.

When sacred notes are rolled into a ball,
flung out upon the outer seams of a galaxy,
resounding and rebounding to a soothing call,
the splatter of matter, a never ending echo.

When first light crackled like a withered hand,
gave every tiny atom the will to expand always.

Richard Wolfson
September 2021