Flotsam

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 coöperation 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.