The Birth of Point

A quiet line
crosses slowly
the theatre
of the mind.

Imagination
rides lonely
a cumulus cloud
and smiles
into the night
in a mirthful
mode.

A shiny moon
paddling
in the sky
winks at a poet
writing
an
ode.

And then,
suddenly
the line turns
and swerves
and stops
and starts
to decrease
in length
and joint.

It recedes,
and contracts,
and shrinks more
than corn,
till it becomes
a dimensionless
point,
a new universe,
as geometry
is
born.

poem by Paul Hartal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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