Late, Late, Late in Human Wisdom

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

A patch of mold begins to spread across

The leather on a sofa down below

And in the basement where the sun can’t cross

The spot.  Life will win against the odds, will grow

To fungal triumph if there is no way

For lovely life.  The powers of the force

Are vast, though, coming from a DNA

So tiny that we knew it not, of course,

Since humans thought for century lengths that gods

They worshiped and then human minds were best.

But then before we thought about the odds

Electron “lenses” found what we’d not guessed.

  It turns out DNA, not us, is king

    Of life, a teensy microscopic thing.