HOW TO MAKE A WORLD by Maria Popova
What are you, little tree
rising from the center
of the old slain stump?
You are no requiem,
no prophet,
no metaphor for how
life goes on asserting itself
over death.
No — you seem to be
just a fractal branch
of the same dumb resilience
by which we rose from the oceans
to compose the Benedictus
and to build the bomb.