O crescent silver on the darkling sea,
You rise in proofs our mortal hands contrive;
Yet teach us that our sight is never free
Till we embrace the patterns we derive.
In every phase we see ourselves reflect,
The atom’s shift, the electron’s shy retreat;
And in that mirror we may still detect
The law that bids all opposites to meet.
Tuesday, July 8, 2025
Ode to the Waxing Moon
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