Knowledge, like the universe, gradually unfurls,
revealing new stars, constellations more
exquisite than a Rodin curve.
Soon though, there will be no secrets,
only the memory of discovery.
It’s like the first delicate stripping
of lace from a slender limb;
followed then by the smell of absence,
like dust falling through the air,
a temporary drifting; knowing
that all dreams rust with age
as they lie asleep in the
promise of being.