It's a big house.
It sits up on top of a hill.
The rooms are spacious,
With sparse and mis-matched furniture.
I cleared out most of the rest
So that my grandchildren would have room to do cartwheels if they wished.

I walk down the wooded trail
That follows a winding creek
And lose myself in the shadows and the sun.
I walk until I smell the pines.
The aroma wakes me from my trance
And whispers, "It's time to go home."

But when I climb back up the winding way,
I find that there is nothing there,
No house, no rooms, no children, no grandchildren.
I find that I am not back where I began.
The earth has carried me to a different place in the galaxy.

No one can step in the milky spiral twice,
And this is why our laws of physics stream such margin of error.
The hidden motion of the mechanics
Has not been taken into account,
And truth has not been furnished quantumly.

-jenn