These things are the signs that, despite everything,
there is meaning and order in the world:
Fibonacci spirals on shells and ferns,
on cactus and fingerprints, hurricanes
and the spiral arms of galaxies;
lattices in chrysoprase and mookaite,
lapis lazuli and malachite, moonstone
and rose quartz and aventurine;
the perfect hexagons of a beehive,
the intricate lace of a spider’s web,
the vast cooperation of ant hills and
termite mounds; geese flying in formation;
migrating birds returning inexorably to the same spot
hundreds of thousands of kilometres away
year after year; ice crystals; the ebb and flow
of waves and the tides and the moon’s phases,
of women’s cycles and seasons; dna and rna,
endlessly unspooling and connecting; the way tears
look different under a microscope depending
on whether you cried with grief, with surprise,
with relief, with utter joy at the signs that,
despite everything, there is meaning and order
in the world.
Flotsam
