Fractals in November, or Why All Things Remain the Same
zn+1 = zn2 + c
I trace around the lobes of a red oak leaf,
noticing the two short nubs close to the stem,
and the next two that extend a bit further,
and then two more, like fingers pointing
in different directions, before it finishes up
with a self-important finial at the tip.
I move on to the maple’s wide palm
and the yellow coin of the apricot.
Old botany lesson, pencil reminding me
of their differences, and what I know
about fractals, how these leaves, following
orders from the underground, practice
the only equations they know. And I compare
each as it mimics the tree from which it came—
the cathedral of the oak, the wide canopy
of the maple, the globe of the apricot—
these self-similarities, our only ways of knowing.
None of them thinks outside the equation,
and neither do I, as I trace around another leaf,
marveling that I, too, have nothing new to bring
to spring and fall, except this observation of me
observing a leaf and the tree from which it fell.
Cathryn Essinger is the author of five books of poetry—most recently The Apricot and the Moon and Wings, or Does the Caterpillar Dream of Flight, both from Dos Madres Press. Her poems can be found in a wide variety of journals. She lives in Troy, Ohio, where she raises monarch butterflies.
Header photo by Hintau Aliaksei, courtesy Shutterstock.
