Buried in the ancient now,
There is a constellation of thoughts,
That has the amorphous authority of a working hypothesis.
Teetering on a frayed whisper,
The coordinates carry the urgency of the stars,
Forever present, forever in danger of fading away.
And like the spring wind can spread the flames of one's beliefs,
The thoughts perpetually threaten to be exposed in decay,
Beneath the melted snow,
Beside the wiggling worms who eat the rot,
Beside the carcasses of the hibernating animals,
Who did not fulfill their Earthly promises.