Seeds fallen from your feeder,
knocked about by house sparrows,
unexpectedly come alive,
the world sprouts amid the shrubbery,
tall, green stalks descending to Heaven.
The world blooms, and dies, and then rises and bloom again,
bursts of yellow,
multitudes of seeds,
lingering, then withering,
rising, and then falling,
the post-corona breathing
of exhausted ultraviolet.
You can't quite capture the world,
its slow, deliberate gasp and grow,
it eludes you, like a cactus thorn
right in front of you, invisible
driving through your finger
toward your heart.
You can't grasp the world--
it doesn't fit in your hand or your mind.
You watch its orb, spinning,
set in "a firmament of stars",
your hands are not sufficient,
the world is not sufficient,
the world basks in the sun,
until its season ends.
