Almost

It never transpired. Expiration before exhalation. Dead on arrival. (Nothing to see here! Move on.) This morning at the kitchen window the shallow landscape gazed upon as if something grew, could grow, up overnight – germination from nothing but absence. Not even “an absence.” Just – nothing. Anomalous generation’s an obsolete body of thought. Nothing comes from nothing. A ghost of a chance not even possible much less probable. Give it a rest. This morning the sun rises as it always does. It will set as it always does. And, still, there’s no moving... on.