Blood Clots
How marvelous that when we bleed,
To staunch a flow with little speed,
If not too deep, no bandaid need.
A miracle occurs indeed:
The platelet, wondrous little seed,
Exposed to air, sprouts like a weed,
Creates a mesh from here to there
It shortly spans, forms little hairs,
And fairly soon is everywhere.
And with our little mesh in place,
The blood cells can no longer race
Out of the wound with rapid pace.
Of course, you say, blood clots in air!
Sure, obvious, but to be fair,
The lungs don’t clot; that’s hard to square.
Perhaps it’s sentient, it knows
When traveling along the rows,
Like capillaries in your toes.
Yet somehow, it detects your harm
And raises up the fire alarm,
And to your wound, the platelets swarm.
In tiniest alveoli,
The blood, in contact with the sky,
If clotted here, could make you die.
But when with lungs, you must inhale,
The complex steps we’ll not detail
Do not transpire or you would fail
To even take another breath,
Or contemplate your last regrets;
Your life would quickly end in death.
So marvellous, so wondrous made!
Attention to great detail paid,
Allowed sometimes, elsewhere forbade.
No chance involved, you’ll not persuade;
Yet once again, it should be said
That we are fearful, wondrous made.
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