Ada Lovelace Pays a Visit
It’s all about ones and zeroes,
she said, her eyes gleaming
like a computer screen,
her voice a comforting hum.
Maybe someday you’ll understand
what to do with them.
I offered her a cup of tea, and
we sat, thinking quietly
over warm mugs, until she
asked if I knew the
code for a perfect sunrise.
I didn’t, so we went
for a walk to see.
If my tea cools, the world’s warming.
If my typewriter’s keys don’t stick, I must write.
If my belly widens, it’s trying to embrace everything.
If meditation fails, there’s always a catfish
scouting silently along the river’s bottom.
If a father shoots himself, he doesn’t mean to do harm.
If a ribbon has ink, it still has a voice.
If snow coats the ground on a December morning,
the dog will curl into a dream of summer rabbits.
And if the sun remembers to rise, we
hope we’ll be able to tell the difference
between it and a blast of our own creation.
Snow and wind
keep the day afloat.
I’m in a small raft of light
at my desk, looking out
over sound waves,
listening for a splash of thought.