Tiny bubbles, in the wine, make me feel happy,
make me feel fine.
-- vintage pop song
Physicists, ever leaning into mystery,
say we are not made of atoms after all,
but of something much smaller:
sparkling tiny bubbles, mini-universes
birthing and collapsing like champagne.
That every point in this spacetime foam --
including the vast emptiness between
an atom in my nose, one in my thumb,
and the thought of a rose in the enfolded
gray matter of my brain -- is packed
with hidden energy.
That the center of any particular miniverse
has no intrinsic direction,
no arrow of time -- that each moment,
each universe, each little self
is a bubble, emergent, whole,
an almost incalculable now.
Some even say that every point in spacetime
cycles through its own expansion and contraction
like tiny versions of a cosmos.
Each moment, a microcyclic universe
endlessly moving from singularity to Big Bang,
collapse, repeat -- driven
at the center of it all by uncertainty,
the most quizzical principle of all.
So here’s a toast,
to this effervescent moment --
bursting from moist lips
into power-packed thin air.