"There is a number hidden in every act of life...numbers screaming to tell us something." - Paul from 21 Grams

If it were only a matter of numbers -
five hundred and seventy seven
minus one hundred and fifty, leaving
four hundred with a little margin for error -
would that be enough to stave off
that one deva who divines calamity,
calls it a sacred door?
Intrepidly blue as the Arabian Sea,
my worries drift on crimson petals,
each envious of the nautilus chambers,
beautiful raft of Fibonacci numbers -
one, two three, five, eight,
thirteen, twenty one.
But still the world cracks open,
flooding us in a feast of breezes
filled with squirrel chatter,
who don’t care if we’re counting.

If it were only a matter of numbers
would it be enough to divide a year into
seasons, days, and hours, littering walls
and tables with the couriers of
our imperious fourth dimension?
The mist that curls my book's cover
is an ample almanac. And even
if our whirl-a-gig minds press for
meticulous rhythms, there rests
within the pulse of a peewee call
that perfect balance of time and place.
You'll recognize it in twilight
when, passed along a string of song,
each countless moment finds its mate;
much like toddlers lined up along the yellow curb –
one piece of day delivered to the next,
welcomed with the opening of a chrome handled door.


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