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?