Seed Bed Continues

A sprawling mattress of mud in grumbling sun Crumbs of womb left where life's plow had run Here the mind forked in spadeful of thoughts Denuding it of weed, and competitive reason Ideas prancing from their web, defy the season Dry as fresh cinder; the wind reverse droughts And scatter on a lumpy surface sense fresh eyes Earth is giant seed floating through the skies. And what is its contents string on chromosomes Matter in mutation, wings with tales piling tomes I am but a bit of gene, I do not code alone. Know Not what fruit I'll blend, knows naught on my own Except the constant shuffling, excisions unknown In tired, exiled bits, until the plant begins to grow. All that I am will come again to seed, and to fruit Sunlight-less, water-less, I am something in shoot. What of the bed, the vast sky and its galaxies now A trillion seeds in the patch of bed. The sharp plow Of meaning in search for deep things where all root Relentless behind the plow and the virtual seeding Unmask to light distinct genres of the old breeding. The sky is a fomenting environment, the silent lute Makes all seed dance like a note in a common music, Can you hear me in the vast staging of pale specific? I am fermenting in ferment and firmanent, the small Atom makes the law, a detail that self and will install, A little price for self, this ego breaking ranks, freedom Enslaved to vision, to identity sparking its own destiny. I have seen enough of chaos, and of rebellion's futility, I know what entropy is, and the merit of man's ransom. Strange, I thought the bed was in my own wet heart That I was the sum of the whole and not the pale part.