You are my missing link,

My Alfred Russel Wallace,

My Galápagos Islands, circa 1836.

I'm stunned by the magnificence

Of the diversity of life,

Distracted by "The Expression

Of Emotion in Man and Animals (1872)."

And I have lots of theories,

And maybe none of them are true,

But I'm intrigued, thinking of you

In relation to "Selection in Relation to Sex,"

And your steady trend ascending, personal,

Ipso facto, "The Descent of Man" (1871).

But meanwhile,  I've been gathering animals,

Male and female of the species,

And trying to fashion nails to hammer

Up inside my ark,

And not to mix up metaphors,

But the animals all have scattered,

Because I'm not good at building.

I'm not good at anything.

I stand alone on the few planks

I managed to slap together,

A shoddy builder in the thunder,

And you, you are my rain.

And I don't know if this will be

"The Voyage of the Beagle,"

Or if the floods will lift me high

Atop Mount Ararat,

But I have the urge to cling to you

And love you, and select you,

Swim freely in your vastness

And forget about this raft.

And somewhere in between all the science and religion,

Is the fact that I am, right here, right now,

Alive with you.

And that's astounding,

Because you're really something.

-jenn