Thinking about science it seems
I could walk through walls or trees—
through the ephemeral elementary
particles that make up everything 
drifting, darting, always in motion
a universe of movement
a world of happenings
not things

Could it be that the flesh I feel
when you take me in your arms
is not just the dance 
of one to another, but also
an internal congruence
atom to atom

We two constitute a random event
one of an infinity of interactions—
a tiny collision in an uncaring cosmos 
perhaps, but what a fortuitous one
                        

We were born to behold the heavenly stars,
a Greek philosopher said—what better 
reason could there be?

Back then people believed the eye’s inner
fire made vision possible, but we’ve learned 
the light pours in—not out. 

Light that reaches our retinas right now
was born deep in the sun’s core 
just over eight minutes ago.

First it streaked by Mercury. An hour
later the light will reach Saturn 
if we don’t get in the way.

It’s physics, or something like it, but
I like to think of the eye’s alchemy—
how it transforms light into image. 

We swim in light like fish in the sea,
each wave a landscape, each ripple
a singular marvel.

I see you next to me and thank
the sunlight for making your image 
appear.
                        

Asleep in your cocoon, do you dream of wings?

Are you amazed, then, by their lapidary elegance
when they unfurl like umbrellas
on either side?

The sun through your wings like light
through stained-glass windows.

The veins like leading.

Do you marvel that your lumbering body
now lifts fluttering aloft?

And what of the antennae, those
delicate bobbles?

Did Mother Butterfly whisper to her eggs 
of the spectacle to come?

Caterpillar, transformer extraordinaire,
tell me your story.