I watched an ant drag a fresh leaf
Across the edge of a jagged stone
In circles, as if compelled by a design.
In winter, I see it also:
Six skeletal limbs bespangling in the air.
They fall, softly, and merge with the snow.
And once, in a sunflower,
I saw an endless field of seeds spiral.
Even the earth spins upon its axis,
And returns, and goes off spinning again.
A dance, but we see it as mere chance?
Who told the leaf to make its stem,
Or a snail to form his helix?
Fibonacci knew, tracing quiet
Circles in his upper room.
His arcs brushed both
Reason and awe.
And I, watching on,
found myself walking in that same arc.
Drawn inward,
and outward,
and inward again.
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