The one who measures angles in the dirt
Knows seven as a spire, a quiet blade,
A mind that reads how veils of wonder flirt
With every sacred pattern softly laid
By hidden hands. She stands inside the square,
A catechism built of brick and stone.
She watches how children breathe the air
And where holy mysteries unfold.
She calculated glyphs with patient strokes,
To hold Eleven, opened, pulled apart—
Whose four slipped through time’s dissolving spokes,
Whose aching grief conceals the heart
And from that dark, their lines begin to trace
Two seekers climbing shadowed hills
One mapping out the logic of her fate
One tasting every echo of the will.
Purple clouds weep where castles stand,
Twenty-two drifting down an emerald sea.
Strawberry lace wraps around your hands,
A heavy love kissed by the cosmic breeze.
Math still spinning in cherry-colored air,
Sunshine sparkle green and blue,
The silent promise his number is still there—
The telepathic chord is struck and true.
The unmade road rides stark and grim,
Her five throws sparks into the black.
My nine sings out an ancient hymn
To guard what should not travel back.
I watch beyond where stardust starts to stir,
Our numbers shift in geometric shape—
A one will soon arise to honor her,
And her six will be the harbor grace creates.
There is no need to flood the air with sound.
An etheric thread they both pursue.
The third shape shimmers from the breathing ground
Where seven’s logic meets eleven’s view.
By giving shape to what the stars exchange,
And catching light in clay built bowls,
The secret paths of symbols slowly change,
Cosmic equations heal the soul.