Behold the Workings
A spider thin calligraphy, a varicose script
upon the shallow sheen of mortality.
Are these the genetics of a divine act
arriving as green stems,
weeds and blooms all in a tangle?
A scratchy nib of doodled ideas?
Behold the dying and the replenishing,
the glory of the shedding.
All this upon a tumbled forest floor
where imagination plods daily.
More marks upon a blank page
developing slow
in the low light of scribbled thoughts.
More night flowerings and late sweepings.
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