Collects independently
of the hand
That gathers the thoughts
of shape
With pruner shears—
Patterns begat patterns,
Nature and man
Entwined in the same labyrinth
Of ornate frame
'round every thing
That seemingly must earn
its keep
By being interesting,
Worthy of a position
In the living painting.
Somewhere in the barrens of the Nile
An observatory of sorts
Awaits the desiccate mind
To return like rain
To this child gone wild
with play,
And the caretakers overwhelmed
With possibility,
Their being mere mesh
for more vine,
As the thought continues to move
further away
From whatever has become
a center
temporarily
in the pattern
Whose circumference is
As wide as an eye.
Is it any wonder that the lion,
Like anything of value,
hides?
