27. Having Received the Gift of Knowledge
Pulp fibers squelch in my hands,
stick to the sides of a bucket,
float in water like egg bits in egg-drop-soup.
They are a galaxy,
swirling matter a volume of water,
cosmic and pedestrian.
They settle on a screen like dust,
even and sedate,
having travelled from stardust
to cellulose to a blender.
The water drains,
leaving behind lumpy perfection.
Deft, wizened hands lift the screen,
flip it like a crepe in the hands of a master chef,
and press the sheet of goop
into dry, pristine felt.
Like greeting an old friend or lover,
the sheet grabs the felt,
holds fast in the embrace of a sponge,
and rejoices in the squeeze of fabric.
Tomorrow, I will peel fresh paper
from the plastic sheet on my desk,
and be born anew.
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