When One’s Year is Mathematically Complex

More often what he did had a seasonal basis.

In December, when a snowstorm whirled,

he was fascinated principally by its crystalline structure.

His notebooks filled

with polyhedral geometrics.

Mostly his leanings were six sided.

And for the moment, the very banality of a triangle

was a bane of his existence.

Even cuboids left him depressed.

He wrote a thesis about sextuple universes,

which made string theorist’s hair stand on end,

and one poem on the subject,

which might possibly have been of interest

if only to mathematicians.

By the time he was done, though,

He realized it was Spring,

and for all his work

was rewarded by mere shrugs of shoulders,

suggestions that his most complex notions

were verging on obsolescence,

and were practically medieval.

Come Summer he transferred his directives

to the biological re-awakening.

But it was already too late.

While what he imagined had the power

of a plague, the tangled super growth of a jungle,

what he got was a moldy potato;

He thought his world would be like a tsunami,

but it was only a dribble.