The whole known universe was compressed 
to a point smaller than the head of a pin. 
Or was it coiled, begging for extraordinary relief, 
reveling in a dream of riotous expansion?

From that dot came all we see and all we know. 
Where or what was it, a fraction of a second 
before? The Cosmos pushed and pulled; then, 
in a perverse form of a balanced act, it exploded.

A billion years passed in a moment, full of inestimable 
yearning, an impatient child on Christmas morning, ruled 
by laughable limits, the speed of light like tin restraints. 
It embodied a peculiar grace, discord and harmony 
were as yet unknown, momentum the first dance,
an uncertain moment birthed by timeless mystery.

Who sang of growth? Who rhapsodized speed?
All that we see and know, all that we are, was present 
in a mighty, minuscule moment. Did it quiver?
Can I taste it in the crispest apple, in the rain drops
split by my precise nose? We are the harvest of stars;
from two of us emerged a questioning bookkeeper.

Comedy and tragedy erupted with an infinite witness, 
and a singular purpose: to unfold, flower, and unfold.

Amid the dirt and decay, remember, we are stardust.