The Meaning Is in the Moment

When did one inch
make a such difference
to the fate of the Universe?

Never.

It’s a human conceit
to make things precise,
to get lost in the details,
to miss the big picture.

I know whereof I speak.
I’ve felt forlorn over lost opportunities;
fleeting moments I failed to seize.

My favorite teams have won and lost
by the narrowest of margins —
what if the ball had bounced
this way instead of that?

Oh, how our ego fears the arbitrary!
There must be some meaning
we can wring out of each tragedy.

If there is something precious
in every heartbeat and breath,
it is not magnified by measurement
or by storing our feelings in amber.

The meaning,
my fellow traveler,
is in the moment.

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This poem was written on September 20, 2025.