Vast distances inside every atom

dwarf our tiny perspectives, calculations

with the enormity of relativity;

how every mote of Matter

whirls alone in majestic vacuums:

an emptiness that sings, is brim

couching each tau and muon

tenderly like in a mother’s womb.

 

Undo the tiny thought!

The presumption we know

how jam-full of stuff we are.

Made of, even.

Specs of transient substance

in an infinite ocean,

which is largely nothings of space.

 

Breathing in this glorious nothingness,

lightening the load, the density

of what we deemed was solid,

tightly compacted like granite,

like iridium,

allowing the cells to stretch and sigh

quaffing de-light, en-lightened:

the mind to drift, letting go of its tethers

so the bigness of spirit

at last finds room to move in.