String Theory

by Wanda Campbell

And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
– T.S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”

The poet says in the end
we will arrive where we began
and know the place for the first time.
Everything is connected to everything else.
We think we operate in four dimensions
but there are several we can’t even see,
and here in this valley of orchards,
I relearn the branches of my youth,
recognize the curious climber as me
and the children in the apple-tree.

The way to glimpse elementary particles
is to pretend they are points in space,
interacting on the stage of gravity,
with strings holding them together
like a net to catch all of reality.
Just as my friend’s art includes a door,
we do what all scientists and poets do –
use what we know to learn what we do not,
aware that the explorer misnames the shore
not known, because not looked for.

I walk on the wind-blown dykes
where le Dérangement still endures
and the tide rushes in with the force
of all the rivers in the world.
I know of no better way to
heal the hurts we carry like an illness
cruel and chronic though kept at bay,
whispers of the past drowned by cries
of gulls, their squawk and shrillness,
but heard, half-heard, in the stillness.

The sea’s slender fingers slide
across strings of knotted kelp
tangled against rock and sand to play
planxties on the harp of who we are.
We hope to recover dimensions we’ve lost
along the way, but there’s no guarantee.
Whatever the ocean hurls at us, pebbles,
a mermaid’s purse, rags of foam or refuse,
we must sift the stars from the debris
between two waves of the sea.