One: the moon
circling Earth, dragging
the oceans like flowing
blue gowns; the human
heart pumping blood
through a network
of rivers that end-on-end
would loop the world
more than twice; the sperm
that wins the race, breaking
through to a new world
inside the ovum; a point,
indescribably small,
a fixed position flashing
in fathomless space.
Two: the eyes required
for depth perception
showing that the throat
of a hummingbird gleams
beyond the liquidambar’s
last gold leaves; wings
that lift a yellow warbler
high above the willows;
the people it takes to make
a new heart begin to beat;
the points that determine
a line from Earth to infinity.
Three: the pairs of legs
that carry the silver-etched
shell of a tortoise beetle;
silky fan-shaped petals
of a pink star tulip
growing close to the loam;
spatial dimensions
that unfolded like petals
of the evening primrose
in the Big Bang; points
making a plane to hold
the stars of the Milky Way.
Four: the chambers
of the heart, allowing
blood to flow in one
direction; the legs of
a white-tailed deer leaping
across a stream; seeds
of the creeping sage
whose blue-violet flowers
carpet the foothills;
the dimensions of space/
time. Let there be four!
And stars can beat, life
stir and breathe.
— Lucille Lang Day
From The Curvature of Blue,
first published in RUNES