paradox

we’re made local for a time
each of us a point of view—
on this sphere
of billions
and growing

no number’s large enough
to count all manifest things
a cosmos full
of jewels in Indra’s net
opal garnet tourmaline
each reflecting the whole

caught by panic
when I forget
I feel diminished
on this fevered slab of stardust
we call earth

then remind myself—
being local
feels intimate
but it’s not personal—
life is birthing itself
right out of itself
again again and again

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.