POEM: TIME

Time

In the content of oceans,

from ancient seas

where diatoms

once floated like ciphers

in warm, sunlit waters.

Then in the lava flows,

in thrusting mountains; later

from the dust of fallen trees,

and along hot fields

where spindly birds

harry husks

for dry seeds.

      

At last in the skies,

where come the winds

that blow through

the broken grasses

and tufts of future stems,

and out to where the clouds call—

here, is still time.

W. O. MITCHELL'S CLASSIC NOVEL, Who has seen the Wind? may have been on my mind when I wrote this. Who has seen the wind, or who will see the wind is another question, perhaps. Youth will see it, certainly, as they experience the richness of life around them for the first time--as will those that look for it and find it as a joyful discovery. All who wish to see it will come upon it someday, somewhere. 
And so, as I like to begin all my poems with a few billion years of perspective, I begin, naturally, with diatoms* (I just love the word, actually.) They are single-celled algae and are classified as neither plant nor animal but share characteristics common to both. These tiny, aquatic creatures produce over 20% of the world’s oxygen through photosynthesis, and are responsible for sequestering some 40% of the C02 gas emitted each year globally (think oil and algal blooms and green slime on lakes and  you get some idea of the range of marine environments they inhabit). Arguably, without these billion-year old lifeforms, life on planet Earth would be impossible. They also make up some 40% of the oceans’ biomass, which is a bit astounding to me. I am reminded of ‘critters’ like fungi, which, in terms of biological classification are in a kingdom all their own. 

Mushrooms, funny looking moss pods, bread mold, all that stuff always creeped me out a bit, especially as a teenager. I couldn’t help think of aliens taking over my body by osmosis or tentacles or whatever. (Typical adolescent sexuality-identity crisis, or perhaps the fear of becoming part of Russia's big-brother, hive-pod culture during the 1950s and 60s. Who knows? I still get a little queasy looking at a bowl of noodles.) 

I also think of bacteria, which accounts for approximately 15% of the living biomass on the planet after plants, which account for almost 80%, while the remaining groups, “in descending order, are fungi, archaea, protists, animals, and viruses, which together account for the remaining  approximately 10%.” https://www.pnas.org/content/115/25/6506

So, we’re not the lords of creation we like to think we are, at least in terms of the amount of weight we throw around the place. Me thinks, we need to have a greater respect for plants in the future! (Day of the Triffids, anyone?)

The image of diatoms as ciphers is interesting, and something I recently edited in. A "cipher" is “a secret or disguised way of writing; a code.” (OED, 331) Whose code, and for what purpose is it written? There is an additional meaning of cipher as a “continuous sounding of an organ pipe, caused by a mechanical defect.” I like the image of diatoms continuously sounding their ‘message’ or perhaps their 'music', even if it is just a single note (which suggests that there needs to be additional notes and tonalities to complete the score.) That this is due to a mechanical failure of the organ is music to my Luddite ears!

The harsher imagery of hot lava fields, followed by a drying landscape with emaciated birds and dry seed husks, is certainly problematic, of course.

In the final stanza, our guardian skies, which protect us from the harshness of space and envelop us in their life-giving airs, breathe upon us in the winds. They convey a sense of hope that there will always be life stirring somewhere. Will it be ours? If we’re lucky, humans might be around for a million years or so. We’ll see; if so, we’ll certainly not be alone: The quickening of life is also in the seeds the wind sorts, winnows and then animates in the new growth that follows. 

Diatoms: AMAZING shapes!

*Side note of interest (at least for me) is that, according to Wikipedia, “the entire Amazon basin is fertilized annually by 27 million tons of diatom shell dust transported by east-to-west (easterly) transatlantic winds from the bed of a dried up lake once covering much of the African Sahara.” Huh! Just when I thought I knew everything…  

And this sweet poem, below, popped up in my search engine as I was googling Who Has Seen the Wind. 
Rosetti's poem provides me with a final  after-dinner mint to end this post. I do like it. But how did Google know I liked it?  How!?! Not to be a conspiracy theorist, but I think AI technology is behind it! Gawd help us!
Q: "Siri, how can I be a fully-formed human being and learn to think for myself?"
A: "Stop listening to me all day, moron, and get outside in your fucking garden."

Who Has Seen the Wind?

by Christina Rossetti, 1830 - 1894 
 

Who has seen the wind?

Neither I nor you.

But when the leaves hang trembling,

The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I.

But when the trees bow down their heads,

The wind is passing by.

The Dancers