A flask is laid on the electronic scale

and tared to zero. I start with a small job lot,

topped up with smaller and smaller 
increments. Index finger gently taps

the silver spatula’s side, loosing a miniature

sheet of fine unseasonable snow. 
In nature this white powder begins

as millions of tiny skeletons, compressed

by their own multitudinous weight 
and the roaring bulk of the sea. Now it will buffer

the pH of the medium, allow me to cultivate

many crinkled circular sheets of mould.
I don’t know why I’m growing mould.

I don’t know what I will do with my life.

But watching and measuring I accrete 
habits of precision, observation; learn

the power of purposeful repetition, the thrill

when the first portion added is exact.