Sunday, September 29, 2013

To A Seed

To A Seed
Dot on the palm. rolling ink drop.
Apparent speck of nearly nothing,
What are you? Iota-small, pebbletight,
Are you waiting to burst at the sun,
To unfurl a request for love, a quest
For the benison of a distant fire, high hopes
for a dot?
                A fool I was to think that squinting
To meet you brought you near nothing. Eye is not
The measure of a dot. You are Nature’s
Eternal vernal prank – to be so feeble small
And yet so vital: life is let live by the surges
Of this pebble. Hearts beat or sink at the waving
Or wilting of the green masts you can hoist.
Your pillars limber up, rubber struts of the field,
Bending an infinite semiology, a fresh name
For every moment, unlexiconable.
Your leaf placards mean almost everything.
Announcing frailty and strength in the same breath,
Which is now my breath, which I use to speak of you.

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