Germ(ination)Theory

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Several weeks ago I wrote a post, Germ Theory, about how “germs” lie at the middle of most snowflakes and stories. A recent story on NPR’s All Things Considered, “Why Do Some Clouds Drop Rain, While Others Don’t?”, brought this idea back up to me:

Because ice is a very picky process. Ice only likes to form on certain surfaces. Dust seems to be very good. Bacteria, biological particles appear to be very good.

And, that brought me back to the poem that I wrote for Germ Theory:

     Writer

I am a collector.

A collector of words,
Of thoughts,
Dreams,
Hopes.

A collector of sights,
Of sounds,
Smells,
Tastes.

I collect feelings,
Memories,
Emotions,
In lovely little
Lined boxes.

Like this one
With the color of your eyes,
The smell of your hair,
And the salty taste of your neck.

Or, this box,
High on the shelf.
I take it down
And hug it to my chest.
Inside, the first time I saw you,
Our first date,
Our wedding.

I collect them all, 
Waiting to weave them together
In a tapestry,
Our story.

It germinated some and has grown into this:

     Writer

I am a collector.

A collector of words,
Of thoughts,
Dreams, and
Hopes,

In lovely little

Lined boxes.

A collector of sights,
Of sounds,
Smells,
Tastes.

I collect feelings,
Memories,
Emotions,
Pressed between the pages.

I pull the pages apart

And find
The gray-green sea of your eyes,
The ocean smell of your hair after swimming,

And the salty taste of your neck.

Or, in this box,
High on the shelf.
I take it down
And hug it to my chest.
Inside, the first time I saw you,
Our first date,
Our wedding.

I collect them all, 
Waiting to weave them together
In a tapestry,
Our tapestry.

Our story.

Just as buds are sometimes prettier than their flowers, I’m not sure which one is “prettier,” the fist—bud—version or the second—bloom—version. You tell me!

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