John Anderson | + Follow Poet |
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At the Point of Inflection

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In the beginning
there was a shapeless void.
With no axis, no curve, no trace of motion—
Just, the stillness of a dark blank space,
echoing the hollow absence of intent.

A point appeared, a tiny taut singularity.
A black pirouette spiraling in the void—
Potential perhaps, but not quite enough
to suggest that something could follow,
beyond a pinprick of stars 
from the impending fireworks.

From the impending quietude, a line unfurled,
like a pick-up stick, a praying mantis—
quivering, trembling, trying to pivot
before the point grabbed one end,  
and fastened it into place.

Now, the silent void had edges—
left and right, up and down,
front and back, over and under.
The void had gained direction—
but only with rigid, unbending lines.

Then nature arrived on the scene.
A tree sprouted from a seed.
Growing in fast-forward time
ignoring the rule of the straight line—
bending, branching, dancing with curves. 
It blossomed into whorls and circles, 
joining the ends to shape buds, leaves and flowers.

A wind rushed in to play in the curves
twisting and swirling, loving the sway and swerves.
A stream joined in, flowing in beautiful, sinuous meanders,
defying the cry to flow straight. 
Even the far-off horizon, once seen as flat,
bowed gently, curving to nature’s rhyme.

Time and light are straight.
Nature is gloriously curved.

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