People who are not afraid of dirt,

a man and woman, always moving,

come together to explain the universe.

"We all know it is expanding,"

and "we all know it is contracting."

Some say these ideas are singular--cannot combine.

But these ideas, they must combine!

They must roll their sleeves and dig up dirt,

their time has come to plant some seed, contracting

gardner's thumbs, ready to start moving

down the road to start expanding

their theoretic garden grove. She can open his eyes to a green-colored universe.

After contemplation, he tells her that his universe

with hers it can combine.

They till the ground, and now expanding

life springs green up from the dirt!

They watch this little life moving,

grinning toward the sun before the evening goes contracting.

She tends to trust in cycles. What spirals toward contracting, 

will grow itself again. He thinks often of the Universe;

why it is, and where it's moving.

Did it awake one day all fixed and firm, or did it combine

itself from bits and parts of things like ice and dirt?

Both know that it is growing, ever glowing and expanding

and though they both enjoy the thought, it is expanding

quicker than they know. "When will I see contracting

once again, maybe back to lumps of dirt,

maybe back to you and me, sitting on our porch and mapping out our universe.

Is this the time to face forever and combine?

Or maybe now again the better move is leaving."

They check the clock, neither sure of leaving.

Though they want to be expanding,

life's demands cannot condone a hasty, ill-advised combine,

so instead they check the clock, close the door and start contracting.

After all, their little worlds will not condone a universe

of scrutiny and questions. Instead they leave behind their dirt.

The work is left to lay, unmoving, dead brown dirt.

Apart, they wander each their the universe,

and maybe sometimes think to when they pondered life contracting.