Her hands are eager hummingbirds
as she explains quadratic equations.
A flutter of wings building momentum
as she teaches eager students about
gravitation and special relativity,
causality, covariance, symmetry,
picking up still more speed as she
teases string theory and quantum mechanics,
and she takes flight, detached from earth
and earthly voice, soaring now, as she
preaches the holy search for a
Grand Unifying Theory.
For the connectedness in everything.
For paths to the stars.
For the light that shines there,
waiting. Dreaming. Calling to us.
She comes back to earth as
she remembers to breathe.
The class inhaling with her,
having soared in those beautiful,
too-brief moments through worlds
they will explore over the coming
years and decades.
Across time stretching infinitely far,
past visible borders and boundaries—
through vast tracts of space,
in minds and one day bodies
in exquisite, sleek ships—
carried on the equations of wings
that once raised them up
and set them soaring.
But now, class done, their teacher
bids swift farewells and dodges
too many questions.
And disappears down labyrinthine
corridors, into warrens and deep tunnels.
Down into the belly of the university,
where it’s warm year-round,
past maintenance byways
and steaming boilers,
and into old brickwork.
And then a key to unlock an ancient room.
A gentle shove, so as not to disturb her eggs,
nestled in their soft nest.
She no longer has her feathers.
But still, she can wrap this body ’round
their olive shells, cheek pressed to heat.
She breathes in their familiar scent,
and wishes she could better cradle them.
But she is no longer the
celestial swan who once dreamed itself
a person, and slipped down from starry heavens
to walk in other step.
Shining no less. Just in different light.
And found she rather liked the taste
of little things: Of butter on fresh-baked bread,
served in small cafés hidden in back alleys.
Of kisses stolen in the midst of mornings
and across long, well-spent nights.
Of being cradled and cradling in warm arms.
Of the sun beating on downy skin,
and diving into deep, clear water.
Of waiting for the first crisp leaves to fall,
and the first snows to frost outstretched arms.
All these things she came to love, and more.
And with the memory of her light still shining
in firmament above, what harm was there
in lingering a little? In seeing what the world
would bring. And when she found her
belly swelling, she chose to stay.
To let that, too, take its course.
She listens to them breathe,
these little lights, shining even now
through shells to make shadow play
of their contents on the walls.
And wonders whether they will
stay here on solid earth,
or let their light fill the heavens
as hers once did.
But for now,
she lets herself dream.
And basks in the warmth of these still-fragile stars.