Evolution

Lessons from the Seafloor

I have sent things to the sea floor:

vessels, robotic arms

And brought things back:

sea stars, crinoids

crushed on the journey to the surface,

Reminders that life thrives where it shouldn’t,

and change can actually kill you.

I have been swallowed by those dark waters, too:

Where surface-evolved eyes see no color

and there is no escape from my imploding body.

I recognize it from the admiration

of people I couldn’t reject,

From rejection by ones I loved,

And from the styrofoam cup I sent two-thousand meters down

then summoned back to surface:

It returned identifiable but in miniature,

a remnant of past purpose,

souvenir for a scientist.

Days before I plucked unnamed anemones and sponges

from their ancient seamounts,

Years before my sacrifice was required

to preserve the family state rooms,

The space station passed over our ship,

its astronauts the nearest living members

of my terrestrial species.

Like whale sharks in passing,

our lights exchanged blinks:

Silent acknowledgement of

significant insignificance,

the soulful smallness

of a few creatures

evolving past their circumstances.

July 29, 2025

Washington, DC