Creation

The pilot said a prayer for fecund seas,
As millions of amoeba floated down,
Borne lightly on the soft primaeval breeze

To flourish in the ocean? Or to drown?
The hull was empty now. He turned for home,
As millions of amoeba floated down

To thrive or die beneath the rolling foam
Which scientists had deemed a likely place.
The hull was empty now. He turned for home,

Imagining the culture of this race
Light years from now upon this barren world,
Which scientists had deemed a likely place.

What wondrous future had he just unfurled?
The human race descended to its birth
Light years from now upon this barren world.

“It’s good,” he thought and, as he gazed on earth,
The pilot said a prayer for fecund seas.
The human race descended to its birth,
Borne lightly on the soft primaeval breeze.