I swallowed a
seed last night
and dreamed
I planted myself
in a sea of loam
sometime before
the periwinkle dawn.
The awful ecstasy of
cracking open,
stretched taut between
dark earth embrace and
a crown of stars circling.
Time no longer
measured in clock ticks
but by arrival of a
glut of blossoms,
plump fruit hanging low,
followed by
death’s jeweled spectacle,
wind-ravished,
branches naked,
shadowed silhouette
in the feeble winter sun.
Let me linger here
with delights of
the grey squirrel’s
soft burrowing into
my body, all breath and fur,
a murmuration of starlings
filling my limbs with music,
chorus of wild irises’ golden
tongues wagging at my feet,
or the pleasures of
being rain-soaked
on a summer afternoon.
Let me sleep
a while longer.
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