Mother Nature is up from the crotch
Vengeful, even toothed, drip... drip... drip.
And the vernal has furnished a season
With elm and redwood and spruce.
But you are content among thorns,
Weeds in your tool-belt, bramble for hair.
Enough winter, soften your bark
Let the backwash of salts from pavement
Turn sand to soil, soil to earth.
Move, trust mistakes.

A handful of twigs, an outcrop of stubble,
A weed or stump of desire
Are a season's debris. Now spring clouds
Burst their canopy of waters
Into this tableland of dreams, dreams
That portend the power of gods or demons.
For in a field at dusk the chirp of a thousand
Leapers in a phase entanglement
Kneel to pray - talk - pray, their percussion
A river's metronome times tide and wave
As minnows dance in shallow pools,
And bees hum in an algorithm whose mesh
On mesh takes orbit and leaves
In a penultimate coda set free.

So should you wake at some distant point
All probabilities spent to a wisp of life.
Blow past this garden where a child
Bawls for its mother, fancy that.