Palmfuls of chromosomes, the possibility of choices.
My hands can help and harm in a sea of choices.
Some chromosomes look like sycamores up close,
melting off blue-bellied trees.
Exclamation marks for many voices
branching bottomless to broadcast a plea.
Spectral pirouettes, speckled silhouettes,
burning butterflies in my body,
teardrops, glaciers, empty and filled spaces.
I feel at sea,
drifting apart from every ponderous statistic,
the optic lens seeing a thinning filigree,
observing heartache from a distance.
Though footsteps root my soles downward to home,
my soul collapses
under reefs of little prayers,
sometimes my solitary role
of weightless grief, fragility,
seeking a more
compassionate connection to the planet,
learning from the way we ran it,
anchored to it as trustees —
sycamores in our hands, blessed with the capability
to take hold of our delicate destiny.