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Fieri Annuli Arboris
“to become the rings of the tree”
9, September, 2025
Each ring of a tree holds story, patience, survival. In writing, I’m finding my own rings taking shape… Among the many rings I’ve written, one stands out as a compass: “Proof of Life.” It was written in an early season, and it still whispers at the heartwood of all I create.
Proof of Life
A point is still.
It moves no more.
It is the hush behind the door.
It is the breath that’s not yet drawn.
The end, the sleep, the quiet dawn.
But life… oh, life does not sit still.
It arcs. It leans. It climbs the hill.
It dances circles out of line.
Then draws a spiral, curve by sign.
A wave begins, not bold, not loud,
just trembling upward through the cloud.
It dips. It lifts. It breaks. It bends.
It never starts; it never ends.
They call it omega… sweet, sacred speed.
The pulse of a system, a whispering need.
A rhythm, a frequency, calling you near.
Not to rest, but to resonate here.
And when the world says:
“Be still. Return.
There’s nothing more to feel or learn…”
The vector turns.
The spiral grows.
The hidden fire softly glows.
And –ΔG. That blessed sign.
Declares: creation is divine.
Because when energy flows freely, love does too.
When chaos meets order, something breaks through.
A baby cries.
A canvas blooms.
A story dances out of gloom.
A spiral is not a circle that failed.
It is a proof the soul has sailed
beyond the point, the end, the known,
into a form that’s fully grown.
So you, dear dreamer, dancer, spark.
You are not lost. You are the arc.
And all your waves, your mess, your strife.
They are geometry.
They are life.
So let the thread keep turning.
Like a bobbin beneath the cloth.
Unseen, but vital. Quiet, but essential.
We stitch onward, even when we don’t know the pattern.
The spiral, the thread, the song. They are one.
I wrote this poem to remind myself (and maybe you, too) that when it feels like we’re going in circles, we might actually be spiraling upward. Through equations, entropy, and that mysterious –ΔG, I found something tender and true: Life doesn’t stop at equilibrium. It sings, stumbles, and spirals.
Just like the rings of a tree.
Cover Photo by Joel & Jasmin Førestbird on Unsplash
🌿 Where geometry meets genesis…
This poem spilled from a stream of questions that began with the pineal gland and rippled into everything:
🌀 The rise of consciousness.
🧠 The awakening of the brain to itself.
⚖️ The trembling choice of free will.
🧮 And how, during my discrete math and linear algebra classes, I began seeing patterns—rotations that hinted at unseen dimensions. It all ties back to the thought experiments I've been trial and error-ing.
Could coherence be love’s true geometry?
This is where Faustus O’Connor finds himself—
Not just a seeker of street art, but a cartographer of meaning. His spray can speaks in spirals. His chalk follows rotations he doesn’t fully understand—yet.
He is haunted by beauty.
He is tracing an unseen math that wants to become music.
He doesn’t know the woman who unlocks it yet—but she’s out there, sketching in Fibonacci curves.
And so, this story becomes a love letter:
To meaning.
To coherence.
To the moment the mind awakens… and sees that it’s not alone.
The Twist Where Meaning Waits
There is a place where the root meets sky,
Where branches kiss in the shape of an eye.
Where two forms rise from a single base—
One soul divided, longing for grace.
A tree, a couple, a Möbius seam,
Bound in the fabric of memory’s dream.
One turn inward, the other to light—
A symmetry broken to birth insight.
The apple gleams with questions untold,
Not sin, but the ache of knowing unfolds.
A bite, a blink—awareness begins,
The first prime wound where coherence thins.
Seven is missing, nine doesn’t chime,
Eleven hums in elliptical time.
The Fibonacci pulse, almost divine,
Wobbles near truth but dares not align.
Matrices hold the scaffolded spin,
A projection of mind that maps from within.
Each eigenvector a buried refrain,
Each axis a memory softened by rain.
This is not fall, but the sacred bend—
The tuning fork struck, the field to mend.
And in the turning, the twist, the sway,
The heart finds home in shades of gray.
So let it wobble, this tender line,
Where data dances and myths entwine.
Where black meets white and forms the gray—
A path that sings the glyph’s ballet.
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