Edited by Dava Sobel
Would that I could
measure the volume
of a glass half-full
but the h of my being
is an unknowable variable.
Nor can I work backwards
the equation for half-life
to account for
the value of one well-lived.
I can hope this crisis
is the midpoint
and that I don't outlive
the remembrance of my past
to be caught in a Möbius present.
I have learned enough, now,
to measure precisely how much it holds,
the irregular curves—
less the difference of the holes life left—
and yet, my heart is still full.