From a single bud;
Legions of seconds sprout,
Embark cloud-bound in their
Clockwork ascent. This one
That way, that one
This way; they bloom, become
Hours eventually.
Weeks become woods,
Months mangle coastlines,
Years swallowed in the damp shade of hungry canopies.
Trace the stem, there—
Yes, down the wizened spine, spiral
Stalk, see the bud, here?
The origin.
Where days divide, peel their silky
Skins from one another;
And under the shadow of the earth,
Beneath the hour's birth,
Before time's blossom is sliced asunder,
There is none; or rather,
There is O
And I, with my body
Blindfold, this screen of flesh
That fetters my vision,
See only division sprout
Cockeyed from the dirt,
Gnarly arms branching for heaven and hearth,
Plenty of petals poking high from the earth;
What mystery do you belie?
You plant the seed.
