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.
Header photo by Hintau Aliaksei, courtesy Shutterstock.