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.
1 May 2017