Whispered Stories of Wombs and Caves

About to walk down the spiral staircase, 

I pause, and notice a knot in the window frame. 

I haven't looked closely before.  

Now I SEE it. 

It reminds me of a drawing done today. 

I begin to look around the house, at the 

wood grain in the floor, at circular, 

spinning lines in a bird's nest on a shelf.

Everything is reduced to line and pattern. 

I see an omphalos in a piece of wood,  

and another in a drawing nearby, 

and understand the elegance of math, 

orbiting electrons and spinning galaxies,  

though I can't explain them, 

except like this, 

in pen and ink and blurring lines. 

I notice the little bits of things picked up 

along paths - ordinary yet miraculous things - 

   whispering stories of wombs and caves and

small creatures hiding in trees. 

I marvel at a tiny spiral relic of shell. 

Again and again I carve a spiral path 

with ink -

as if  spinning around 

the navel 

of a tiny universe.