The pulse of a star, unheard, unseen,
A whisper in the space between.
The echo of a thought just born,
A silent song before the morn.

A sliver in the dark, then grows,
A crescent, then a brighter half.
It swells to a full, silent sphere,
Reflecting light on night's behalf.

Then slowly it begins to thin,
A gentle waning, day by day,
Until it fades from sight again,
And holds its cycle on display.

The scale of the cosmos suggests that what we perceive as 'empty' is simply the dominant state, punctuated by rare, localized instances of organization.

The whisper of a thought unseen,
A resonance where silence has been.
Felt in the heart, a knowing deep,
The sound the dreaming shadows keep.

It starts as naught, then shows a line.
A crescent grows, a pale design.
It fills itself, a widening round,
Above the world, without a sound.

It holds its full, a steady bright,
Then slowly shrinks throughout the night.
A lessening disc, a fading thin,
Until the dark draws it within.

It disappears, then comes anew,
The turning form, for skies to view.