Somewhere,
a dewdrop sits on a feathery leaf.
An intricate patter of mottled green light
dances across its perfect, round surface.
It could sit there forever, but it won't.
The leaf is on a stem, the stem on a branch,
the branch on a tree, ancient and august
and older than any living thing for miles.
It is weighed, no, tied down with ropy vines
This gnarled specimen is but one of hundreds,
no, thousands of others, each its own thing
and yet part of something more, that strange beast
we call 'forest', with its own will and being.
The forest can do nothing but grow larger,
pushing the pathetic rocky boundary
of its continent, yearning to be free
across a lashing ocean. But it can't.
And so the forest stretches upwards
outwards, downwards, inwards, any way it can.
Bursting as it is with life, it cannot cross
the borders of its watery prison.
A landmass, choked with green, surrounded by
an ocean just as deeply soaked with life,
and they wrap around an enormous orb
spinning, incomprehensibly, in place.
And as this tiny blue-green orb rotates,
it whizzes, blindingly fast, around a
glowing fiery sphere, hundreds, no, thousands
of times its size, trapped by the laws of nature
The star is one of billions spinning in
a pinwheel so titanic, entire worlds
are born and die before the other side
even knows they had existed
There are more of these pinwheels than there are
dewdrops on all the leaves on all the trees
on all the planets around all the suns
that have been, and will ever be, ever.
So somwhere
We sit on our rock while infinity
swirls around us in intricate patterns
and mottled light dances across our eyes.
We could sit here forever.
But we won't.