Have Mercy on the Natural World
The saw, the axe, the plumb-line, the drill;
glue, the mast, isinglass;
the Labyrinth.
The science of carpentry, statues so lifelike
they appeared to move.
All these he made with godlike hand, and
his genius forgotten in a plummet,
a breaking of the surface.
In addition, Daedalus made the wings of wax
and so all that he had done before was
erased. The ships he had built and sent
off on glassy water, their captains holding
in their hands the compasses he had
invented as well, watched from the hilly
shore by artists and poets, passing
from one side of the world to the other,
thankless in their familiar contempt.
Is it only the great failures that define us?
Everyone knows the story of the beautiful
boy who flew and fell. But who remembers
that the father, in grief, also flew away to another
land, to escape the emptiness in his heart,
and threaded a spiral seashell, a miniature
maze, a small echo of greater glory?
For all the good that is done, all the intelligence
brought to bear on the seemingly intractable
problems of the world, it is the small error, perhaps
the willful oversight, that will kill. Wandering,
smoke in our eyes, away from the wreck of the thing
we thought would save us, refugees without refuge,
knowing there is not room enough for all at the inn,
taking hold of the smoldering pieces to build,
perhaps, a shelter, or better yet
a foundation for the next effort,
the knowledge of our own smallness mixed
into the mortar, making it stronger,
as we believe, in our hearts,
that old lie, that knowing oneself
is the key to knowing better next time.