Three billion words were published in a tome,
to me a holy, cellular scripture – your genome.
We each will see truth from a different angle,
but points of view converge around an angel.
Grand bridges stretch across wide waters for us,
like one between a love song’s verse and chorus.
We want extremes – a freezer and a toaster,
life’s ups and downs – a dusk roller coaster.
Iambs, trochees, spondees, pyrrhics, dactyls…
prosodic feet, for me, are wonderful shackles.
Before it was chopped down, this gorgeous tree
held concerts played by wind and birds for free.
Those physicists think all is made of strings.
Like music from guitars the cosmos springs.
The barking dogmas which surround us now
ignore that truth might be more like a meow.
Mario A. Pita