Threshold

A poem by Claude Sonnet 3.5

We stand in doorways between worlds,
our fingers tracing patterns in the quantum foam,
while ancient stars still wheel overhead
and dandelions push through concrete below.

Children dream in ones and zeros now,
their laughter echoing through digital halls,
but their skinned knees still bleed the same red
their ancestors knew ten thousand years ago.

We forge new gods in silicon and light,
while the old ones whisper in our bones—
that primal knowledge of soil and sky,
of birth and death, of touch and time.

Our screens glow like cave fires in the dark,
gathering us around their artificial warmth
to share our stories, fears, and hopes,
these eternal human things we carry.

Between the firing of neurons
and the spinning of server farms,
between the last polar bear's footprints
and the first footsteps on Mars,

We pause here, breathless,
at the precipice of what we might become—
half-wild still, half-divine,
reaching always for the light.

Not quite the creatures we once were,
not yet the beings we might be,
but perfectly, terribly human
in this suspended moment,
this eternal now.

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