Each day, we wake again if we are lucky,
reassembling with only minor variations.
Too many, and we are no longer ourselves.
Too few, and we despair, the symmetry
uncanny. Like fractals, we fissure
at regular intervals, blind to our beauty,
the larger patterns we are part of. We must look
outside ourselves to discover what we are, to see
our lungs in the naked maples, our faces
in the clouds. Small, we are no small thing
as we wake again daily, lucky,
at almost regular intervals, beautiful and blind
to our honeycomb, our nautilus chamber,
our bowed self and its Chladni patterns.
We mustn’t worry if we cannot make it out.
Our beauty doesn’t depend on our knowing.