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A Series

J. Quinn Brisben


The Fibonacci numbers start with ought,
Then one, then one, then two, then three, then five,
The eight, thirteen, and onward, spiraling toward light,
Infinity, and all the things that live.

They rule the “stately mansions” of the leaves
And blooms and seedling cones and gyring thoughts
Of Yeats, the ordering that chaos loves
To build as chance deforms our sprawling lots.

There is no perfect order, chaos neither
In any macro-micro world perceived
By human probes, a number series rather
Teases to thought with certainty removed.

The backyard Norway pine has dropped Spring cones,
And children’s romps extend the living zones.




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