The moon begins, a sliver thin.
It gathers light, and then within
Its measured arc, it grows complete.
A rounded disc, both soft and neat.
Then shadow claims its silver sphere,
As edges shrink, year after year.
A slow return, from full to dark,
Leaving its constant, quiet mark.

The light of a star, traveling for millennia, arrives not as a beam but as a question, whispered from the deepest past into our silent now.

The universe's immensity is not a void to be filled, but an unending question to be contemplated.

When we recall a moment, are we seeing the past, or merely a projection from the present?

The quiet dawn, a whispered breath,
Unfurls a canvas, clean and vast.
A gentle stir, escaping death,
Where old shadows can't be cast.
New light ignites a vibrant spark,
A hopeful journey from the dark.