When They Fell, They Made No Noise

The dots that will lead to a new
Branch of math rose out of a talk
By a field of grass, change, and words.
The next day, the dots set to work.

Their goal was to make books like worlds
That merged the names for place and space,
That would let the field’s reach grow past
Words, grass, and change to stars and truth.

They found a new proof for the times
It takes a type of curve to touch
All the points in a capped space. Since
There was one, it worked as a tool.

From the field to the beach, no walls,
Tin roof to catch the thoughts of rain,
The dots have kept at it. Lines, curves
Too, are both counts and shapes. That’s space.

The dots have reached the truth’s sweet spot,
The part not too hard, not too soft.
Here bits of truth have been pried loose,
Home base points of a group that loops.

Points such as those, if one adds one
To one, and does so and does so,
One comes back at last to the first.
The day will come when linked dots branch.