Poetry in Nature

Looking at the rhythmic repetition of forms in nature, it is easy to imagine the influence of some creator, a poet who fixes each line with exact meter and measure. Yet, upon closer examination, we can see how these forms are self-creating, born from simplicity. Nature writes its own poetry.

Take, for instance, the tendency of water to form branching veins.

We begin with an aspen leaf, which landed on a bed of new fallen snow. Weeks of gentle sun warmed the dark leaf and melted the surrounding snow. In that tiny pool of water, the softer parts of the leaf began to decay, revealing an intricate network of veins:

Decaying aspen leaf (Populus tremuloides) in snow

This efficient system not only allows water and nutrients to be spread evenly across all parts of the leaf, but facilitates production and transport. Here, newly synthesized sugars are gathered and delivered to the rest of the tree, storing energy for new growth.

The melting snow enters a similar branching network. The snow falls uniformly on the surface, melts, and follows the force of gravity. Drips of water collect into tiny streams, which flow into larger streams, and into rivers, and so on. This creates the same familiar patterns we found in the leaf:

Satellite imagery of a series of branching streams drain into the south fork of Boulder Creek in Rollinsville, CO. (39° 54' 56"N, 105° 30' 32"W)

In the creek, the water seems to follow more branching patterns, as the flow breaks around stones of various sizes. Even the sound of the rapids reflects this diverging rhythm, as quiet ripples build and merge into bubbling crescendos:

Snowmelt surging in rhythmic patterns through the south fork of Boulder Creek, near Rollinsville, CO.

Of course, some of this water is being drawn into the vast root system of the aspen grove, nourishing new life. There, the same bifurcating patterns are reflected in each limb and twig.

The south fork of Boulder Creek, looking east towards Rollinsville. A small grove of aspen grows on the south bank.

Over the winter, the complex network of branches on the trees, barren of leaves, has been easy to see. But this aspen won't be revealing its secrets for much longer. Spring is near, and soon new clusters of leaves will be quaking in the wind. The budding catkins will flower, and tiny seedlings will drift down the canyon on a breeze.

A twig from an aspen tree (left) with budding catkins (close-up view below)

Nature, the sublime poet, writes its own work.

Satellite image of Rollinsville via Google Earth. All other images taken by author.