The glassy sphere, once void, now felt by her,
The smallest and least known of all mankind
The aimless one, so frightened and unsure
Full of scattered thoughts and undefined,
She feels, she flies; she grows and tastes the tears
Of age and timelessness in voids of glass.
You, youngest of the universe, what years
Have brought you where all life is in the past?
Look to the old and wrinkled souls, not yours;
Theirs have taken lead into the stars,
Always looking up, to see what pours
Like truth so often does, from light afar.
She ponders this, the years, herself a dearth--
Shattered like eggs; now cried the yolk of mirth.
postscript
Day 22 of NaPo, also my third contribution to the collaborative crown of sonnets at [link] . The theme: new birth, old death and the wisdom of age.