Does the seed feeling its quickening life,
straining at its shell, dream of its next world?
Dying star, imploding and still so rife
with attractive energy, yet divulged
a brand new universe, didn't it?
Baby in the womb, cramped for space, feeling
first pangs of eviction, does it limit
its thoughts to the moment and keep clinging
to familiar or invite possibility?
Straining at a shell of aches and pain
could an old man reject his infirmity
dream a world that went beyond the mundane,
with joyful abandon, open the door,
fearlessly reveal the future and more?