Multiples Of 11 Poem by Eli Spivakovsky

The Arctic wraps its ice ribbons around itself
defies physics.
It is growing, yes,
like both our hearts heaving with blood.
It is growing.
It is expanding,
and collapsing like our enfolding.
Stars so bright here
they go beyond fixation
they are dripping light
millions of which
leave a flash trace
and still grow more
like the moss on Antarctica
this desert is a giant icicle
only just growing, but still growing.
Can you notice us increasing?
I spin and flutter around you.
If we are a math equation
then we are in between
infinitesimal and infinity.
Perhaps we are
multiples of 11
which always stays loyal
and can never get 11 away from it
the centre of the triad is the sum
describing their original love
I watch you adorn the snow
You make a six-wing snow seraph
Far away,
A bird calls to us
Far away,
her nest is not frozen
but insulated with down
how resplendent are the untamed.
she coos a secret cipher for her mate:
the summation of star, dendrite,
column capped with plates, plate,
column, and needles
we watch her give him all the snowflakes
coded from her song
Crisp, chilled numbers flux from my mouth
I'm counting the days
that were really nights in Iceland.
Snow crystals drop in hexagons
the same as certain chemicals
flower seeds could grow from its water
blooming as it falls.
like something out of Eden
with its early taste of frost
and discovery of ice
and they smeared it across their eyes
and rubbed it on their lips.
And time changed
they became witnesses to time
the seasons were introduced
and their helices remembered it
to bring to us
a giddy memory
a winter orchard of frozen numbers
From this, I measure your eyelashes
how often they blink
and slow them down
until our eyes are shut
in dreams
no matter how we add ourselves
no matter the marriage of integers
we are the same
as we once were
loyal to the end
collecting the frost
no matter how we grow
we still become number 11.