And while Darwin was in their fevered darkness
He held her
I know what he said about survival of the fittest but he held her just the same
He was her father
I watched as her tiny fevered hand
Wracked and flailing touched the human in him
And for a moment longer than all the ages since the Earth was wrought
The evolution of the species became a matter for other men, empty, dead men
With nothing better to do than bicker
And in the ensuing silence
After the fires of her life were spent
In the long hours of a cold dawn
He wept . . .
he wept . . .