A Pan of Fudge

I live where I can see the Milky Way,

And lived when that was all there was to see.

The universe was one big galaxy

And not a hundred billion trillion points

Connected each to each haphazardly

Like bubbles in an insubstantial froth.

When making fudge it’s critical to watch

The bubbles stitch themselves together in

Their boiling, ever changing, roiling mess

Until a pattern forms that says the fudge

Has reached the proper temperature to set

And must be taken from the heat to cool.

The universe is in a cooling stage.

And will the product turn out perfectly

Or will the watcher find it cooked too long;

Is ruined, burnt, and must be thrown away?

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