A Poem: Rain On the Seeds
Which stone will be first,
when things come apart,
which river will sweep up
the dragonfly’s invisible heart,
which caterpillar will
become which butterfly,
what will the weasel with the wind
at the tip of their tongue dream
before dumping out a basket
full of diamonds into the morning;
their red cheek streaked
with lightning-mud and claw marks,
what will that one damn dog
who unraveled everything
think while overhearing the humans
laughing on the porch
carrying joy out among the grasses,
what will finally lead the divided,
to find wasps in the wood sorrel
experiencing with awe, the bees
who draw bouquets of flowers
below the sky scrapers,
distributing pollen through
these perilous times,
who will set right the discrepancies
between what was written
and what has been lived,
haven’t we always felt the things we are made of
haven’t the things we are made of always felt us,
how could any one piece be separated
when there is only braided mutual metabolisms,
how could any one piece be separated
when there is only woven and constant transformation,
how could any one piece be separated
when there is only entwined relationships,
when there is no alone,
how could there be anything
other than alive.