My daughter carried you home.
The vial looked empty.
But you were in there,
a fraction of a speck.
I watched you,
through the microscope,
for almost an hour,
Euglena.
Turning. Twisting. Searching.
They say you are just a machine,
but it all looks so intentional.
Not an animal,
not a plant.
A genetic aberration,
defying our desperate little labels.
You are sacred Euglena.
A tiny temple to evolution.
A shrine of shimmering mosaics,
tiled with DNA.
What do you see,
Euglena,
with your blood-red eye?
What is it like to be you?
Tell me Euglena,
are the lights on?
