Ode to the Microorganism

Humans, like leaves or like rabbits
are composed of atoms,
ruled by taciturnity or by pleasure.
Cells are like flowers—even more
beautiful, perhaps, but less
flamboyant; blooming as if time
has no preeminence, no jurisdiction
over the precincts of flesh.
Reticent, as if to maintain their victories
in the art of being.
Over and over, they lay down
their lives in the name of restoration,
relentless draftees unaware that they
will never have the vigor to fell
the sun. Still, they saunter forward,
minuscule gods playing dumb to
preserve our dignity. They have always
known everything we have spent years unraveling, and now they laugh
from their perches in our bodies,
content to obey, even knowing
that we will never comprehend
the unconditionality of their love.
They fight to save us anyway.
It paints them as a far more beautiful
deity than any I have ever worshiped.

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