The Discrete Ratio

Embedded within 

The Flower of Life

Begs your forgiveness,

Modestly retires,

And leaves you to count to ten.

What was it you were mad at, again?

Maybe it was something you have done, too?

Maybe you should go back to look for 

The Discrete Ratio, 

And beg her to forgive you?

Is she not there, asleep in her room?

But draw the sound of the Andean Flute

In the fog upon her window pane,

And tonight when the moon stops atop

The clouded standstill,

And time freezes over, maybe this wistful missive will, too,

And maybe the sound of it hitting the ground

When it thaws

Will bring her back to you.

-jenn