Cut like the Universe, like Fibonacci
numbers: pineapple fruitlets, flowering artichokes,
the whorls of new leaves emerging from their stately
petioles; like order and structure, too beautiful to taint
with analyses of why and how; like the voluptuous curves
of seashells, the manner in which they achieve
self-engineered, curvy perfection; like rows
of eyebrows on a new baby, hairs so fine as if they
haven’t had time to lay a claim to statehood;
like the way Nature exhausts herself from producing
yet another new snowflake; like patterns of waves
and cycles of seasons and the monotonous cacophony
of repetition and why they have the audacity to compete
with God.
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