The Good Poet

Evocative Poetics 

 The Eons

Suzie looks outside of the lab station the window into jungle, logic scanners still on; friends with the tropical plants, their discrete DNA entities; not connected to the species, the ones living closest to the density measured in jungles, theHumans (Suzi, new to patterns of color, the green hues, reds, yellows, blues, browns, all a singular purpose in the business of survival), and their billions of years using oxygen. Oh, the tries oxygen made as nutrient and nurturer of intelligence as an absolute need, emerging as if children scampering on an endless playground  as if children scampering on an endless playground. 

Tropical plants do many things; then, in a moment, looking different from each other, is oxygen itself it. Even after a million years, another plant comes along and pumps out even more oxygen, more efficient, making more, stronger, carbon chains. Same oxygen from green leaf, different model that somehow looks brighter, stays longer. Its new queen, her DNA machinery faster, accepting more photons; it creates more storage and grows bigger, hoping to produce more oxygen, a sense of accuracy in computing so fast with these conditions, jungle rises from (for?) necessity. It's the jungle sensation at night, threading sequential dream-like moments, DNA machines grinding in silence, seclusion, a unique readiness for sunlight, with its anticipation, seemingly every sunrise, or just before sunrise, the jungle emits bursts of oxygen activity at first sign of the sun as if a daily cognition, for eons.