I do not believe
that each of us has a path
mapped in a cosmic GPS
where we need to wait
for a pleasant recording to say
Turn right, 300 yards ahead.
But that we are the captains
of our soul.
We make our own way.
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The year of the poem is finished, now it is the year for the protocol! Read about the misadventures of a plant scientist trying to make sense of photorespiration one mutant at a time.
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