Infinity

I would think that almost every poet has taken a stab at this one. Let's not forget his equally grand twin Miss Eternity.

                            Infinity

                There is no reduction
                          of infinity.
                      You can carve
                large chunks from it,
        burn great swathes through it.
                    Nothing dents it.
             It's not much diminished,
                 no matter the effort.
                      It has reserves.

                    Infinity stretches
                  like a graceful swan
                    drifting on a pond
                     of utter stillness,
          the immense wings unfurling,
               rolling outward toward
            an immeasurable morning.
                  The ponds edge is
                     shrouded in fog,
                 beyond imagination,
                       (as if an edge
                 could hold that pond).

                  A wisp of down falls
           from her outstretched wing.	
                     It glides silently,
           sashaying across the eons.
                   When that feather
             finally kisses the surface,
                        it will create
           the minutest ripples, which,
            from crest to shining crest,
                  will span light years.

         Does she miss the tiny feather
                 that muffles a galaxy?
                  Of course she does.
                    The swan cares
                   for each molecule.
                She looks fondly upon
              even the short, ungainly,
                unprepossessing ones.
                    How can she not,
                 are they not precious,
                  each and every one?

                  The swan’s trumpet
                  will dispel the chaos
                    as the dawn’s light
                       dispels the mist
                   and the pond’s edge
                       comes into view.