Flowers at my feet

They are perfect proof —
nothing in nature makes sense
except in the light
of evolution.

           — Dandelions breaking through concrete.
           — Violets licking at the heels of the wind.
           — Wet-lipped tulips gasping at dawn.
           — Petals unfurling like accent scripts.
           — Chromosomes singing in soft symmetry.
           — The quiet arithmetic of inheritance.

What green hunger invents a way to live?
Once, they were wild, nameless things,
a reckless experiment of time, & mutation,
a screaming mass of nameless elements;
roots groping blindly through centuries,
drunk on the sun’s algebra.
And now this —

Petals shaking their gold into the wind, the impossible softness
of a daisy unfurling against my bone. The arrangements of meaning,
engineered elegance; sculpted — survival.

But the science of survival is brutal, and holy; written on the blueprints of bees,
sucking pollen into futures, the sequence of seed and soil, the long patience
of chlorophyll turning sunlight into breath.
And me —

           this improbable creature
           with my upright spine and equations,
           standing at the threshold of billions of years,
           staring at the quiet mathematics of cotyledons,
           the genius of green veins threading through eternity.

At my foot, a tangle of fragile equations, DNA stacked like brittle staircases,
ankle deep in a field of quiet architects. They do not bow, they do not worship,
they do not pray, they do not know me at all; yet, here we all are, together,
each of us still learning how to be, how to become; each of us unfolding,
stretching toward whatever comes next.