Poetry About Membranes

In a cell wall glowing under the lens, membranes finds a visible shape. Soap film holding rainbow light carries what ordinary speech leaves unfinished. Between oxygen crossing a delicate boundary and a drum skin answering the hand, the heart learns to listen. Life often depends on borders flexible enough to exchange, though the day rarely says so aloud. By night, one thin layer deciding what may pass becomes a promise rather than an ending.

Soap film holding rainbow light enters the poem first. Membranes follows, neither symbol nor explanation, but weather. A drum skin answering the hand keeps the difficult measure. We stand near a cell wall glowing under the lens and let certainty loosen. Life often depends on borders flexible enough to exchange. One thin layer deciding what may pass remains after the room grows quiet.

Someone remembers oxygen crossing a delicate boundary. Someone else names a cell wall glowing under the lens and means an entire life. Membranes moves between them with patient hands. Soap film holding rainbow light refuses to become only background. Life often depends on borders flexible enough to exchange. At last, one thin layer deciding what may pass gives the silence somewhere to rest.