who have delved so deeply into the
nature of existence that they have
trespassed into the realm of poets.
It is general consensus that we are a
symphony of strings, neither harmonic nor
discordant--or rather, in the true nature of
things, perhaps both and neither--
playing out infinitely complex variations
of cat's cradle, tangled and then unwoven,
or hopelessly knotted, as we must surely be
in certain conditions of love.
Soon such words will appear in textbooks and
no one will be surprised when scientists,
over French wine, speak of moonlight, heartache,
Sappho, and the consequences of desire.
Ultimately then it may be true that we are reducible
to simple formulae. I take comfort in being
comprised of the same quarks and particulate matter as
the orchid at midnight, its roots and the soil,
the meadow and the river, the scents
distilled from mango and cedar, the heron
at flight, wood, fire, air, starlight, breath, the strain
and warmth of desire, heart, promise, you.
—Martin A. Bartels