Each of these daisies sways to its own,
As every moth finds
An untaken path,
As every unique bee that
Crowds around
Each singular lavender crown
Is absorbed in the sea
Of yellow wave and spindrift butterfly –
Yet the one is the many,
The hanging bamboo
An expression of clover,
The hawksound above
Cries the eucalyptus scar,
The stream runs down the tree trunk
To the pool that holds in shapeshift
The forest,
And the ears of grass suspended overhead
Seem to say what it is
But it hovers on the other side of the chasm,
Where the secret life is only imagined
Through the snake shapes of the rosemary,
The timing of the ducks
As they come and scoot away,
The conceptions of a rhythm
Like pencil lines that stay,
As the bee becomes the ice plant,
The finch becomes the bee,
And a dusty field of flax
Turns butterfly paradise,
A galaxy of coreopsis
Yet nothing really changes
But the openings to sun,
It’s just one turning thought,
Reflecting and pondering on
As if there’s much that matters
In the things existence makes.
There must be something captured
In the emptiness of mind
Before it is let go –
Fly, white feather, make a destination.
The cactus buds have never been this red.
