Does the ant know the sanctity
of its underground cities?
The bee,
the glory of its hive?
Hexagonal arches?
The nectar of its cellars?
The spider,
the poetry of its web?
In the autumn,
between casements of sticks,
holding the opals of the sun?
Are they chaos?
Happenstance?
Do they matter because they are beautiful
and ring with a song?
Of all the books I have seen,
why do they say nothing of these
in their pages?
Taking apart the wing of a fly,
what could I learn?
That light traces the pathway of dawn
and gives me a path?
That empires rise in the surf
of the sea,
and make me a citizen.
That truth has no words
large enough for truth.
That paradigms are bridges
between the seen and unseen.
That I am more wonderful
than my wonder,
a snowflake’s creation.
That the book I read daily
is constantly rewritten,
and nothing is small once it is open.