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Kenneth Lee

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Smoke break in the courtyard of the Institute for Molecular Genetics Research

Today at last, late winter's wind relents.
A scruffy tuft of withered weeds protrudes
above the shrinking snow. A three-note trill,
and then extended warbling, exudes
from yonder ivied wall. Unlooked-for thrill,
first call from spring, a gift the finch presents.

I think of Darwin, pondering the bills
of certain island finches he'd observed
whose beaks diverged: some stubby and some sharp,
and wondering why, a nudge from God incurred.
A thunderbolt was heard, that split apart
the world, a righteous gulf that's gaping still.

But man, the thinking animal, adapts.
Inside these walls determined scientists
probe the exquisite coils of DNA,
to learn of what raw stuff this life consists.
Ingeniously, they plot its vast array,
updating maps with ever fewer gaps.

Meanwhile, mid-March kindles the coming fire.
And I note that since my morning smoke
a crocus-shaft has pecked its fervent bill
through earth's bleak shell in one courageous stroke.
But, where within that bulb is fixed a will?
And how does it foment such fierce desire?

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