There's a milky
fractal landscape
of infinitesimal dew
where galaxies briefly
catch like thistle threads
and we cluster into whorls
of drifting attention.
Un-burst rose buds
in December.
No asymptotes in time,
only curves.
Every creature pouring
its cream into another's cup.
Earth a kind of
overflowing, our eyes
already filled with
what they might see.
Gaze a little deeper
into darkness
and notice the glow
of a crocus approaching,
like a star whose light
is still on the Way.
Now with your
softest breath, polish
these dusty thoughts
from your heart mirror.
Meet me here,
where there was never
a beginning. Friend,
don’t be so sure
we really left the egg,
the silence ever circling
our golden selves.
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