It Came of Nothing
To make a poem of nothing but the will!
“Nothing will come of nothing,” said the king,
certain of being right in everything.
But I am not the king. Who knows what’s stored
among the cells and coils, locked in, ignored—
or what, once found as rough, could be refined,
if aggregate, torn loose and recombined?
From where did our vast universe appear?
That something came of nothing’s why we’re here.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Don
Wheelock would be pleased to hear them.