Should we
look for answers,
forcing that fragile seed
of knowing
to sprout?
Or simple,
garden our questions,
the burgeon of complexity,
the fertile stretch
for light,
and delight
in tangled undergrowth,
hoping one sunny day,
for a fine
unexpected
perfect flower,
whose curves inward
drown all words,
a nectar to dance about,
coordinates to silent perfection,
a perfumed breath
in and out.
—-
simonhlilly 