It’s a bad idea to love me, now.
There’s fruit that goes bad on the vine, you know.
Hard and promising turns rancid like nothing.
Nature never gives it up.
Why press a process to course along an edged stream, lined with hope?
Behold: an unfolding.
I let go already.
All that push, push, rush is what got me here, hard
after the season of promise.
Sure, there’s something inside.
But it won’t show from under the glistening whisper of spring
or the glaring eye of summer.
Behold: a disrobing of expectation, a sacrifice
to the unmerciful muscle of the present.
Here you are,
and goodbye to your need.
I come first.
Every wise branch in the park reminds me to take care.
Make preparation your art,
meditate upon the eyelashes of every moment,
the breath of each and every shred of change in the air.
Become, unwind, plait Time’s folds along a pattern of desire
to live deep as roots, to journey as far as water, to behold: an awakening of the being, born.
