patterns moving through wheat fields,
           or moving through peoples,
           a sinusoidal, vertical change.
movement, then still,
           waves on a beach.

the pattern,
           reminds me of something, something,
           haunting behind my mind.
just beyond perception, it moves,
           shimmering, seriously,
           through clouds and eyes.

the creeping coming of tomorrow,
           spelled out in a winter night wind.
it's the pattern that persists,
           though the tides change and then their names.

and what if death comes to claim,
           subtracting from the lacework of my reason,
           a rhythm, in time with mine, quietly ceases?
oh ghost, dear pattern,
           tell me you are the same.

and don't we change?
           don't we rarefy and contract?
surely what endures is a pattern,
           every atom searching unknowingly,
           through chaos's clouds and my friends' eyes.

i see it in the magnified snow,
           the growth of grass,
           and waves in the canal, standing.
i see it in the triangle of Serpinski,
           and a lonely red disc on our fifth planet.
it's the pattern that persists,
           forever beyond my personal consciousness.

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