how odd that we grow
up and down at the same time
when the wind airs spacious
those green spaces of nothing;
light — like a featherweight letterpress
inserts its needless nervous burn.
effusive through tendrils of life
and the places around it —
all the same paths, neural, organic
as webs are apophatic, beautiful.
oh, yes, the dirt in us is piling
and there’s no intention
but to weave deeper and find
the creeping things that
wind around our roots and feed us
and run an electric course
to blossoms at our fingertips.
how odd that we grow
out and in from the same place
that both in the round open
and hope to embrace a long line of
sojourners: they embark and branch
away and leave their roots exactly
where they ought to stay.