Credo

Blossom and greening.

Recurring wonder.

For me this year not you recurring,

for these our children soon not me.  Then

for theirs not them.

One day perhaps for no recording eye.

One day certainly

not recurring,

the planet dying, dead.

This planet, tiny speck

circling an only little less tiny spark,

one of uncounted millions in a galaxy

one of uncounted galaxies sailing space.

Perhaps

these huge galaxies are only atoms

of a vaster matter (as the electron’s charge

might hold a universe).  Or perhaps

our time, space, matter are not

their own reality, are really

a section through an other-dimension world,

all seeming happenings here a chance effect

of happenings there (and so on).

But on the simplest model of the cosmos

this our world is infinitely small

and in no sense a centre.

Yet here we are.  And here’s our apprehension

of beauty and good (also of bad and ugly,

but those are negatives,

shadow to light).  And somehow I believe

without doubt in the absolute being of

good, beauty, love,

and that beyond the irreparable errors,

the irreplaceable loss,

the truth of love, somehow,

is here and never lost.