Those little mosses that press forth—

what are they thinking

in their eyeless, earless, tasteless world;

they yawn into dawn;

who told them to be just moss?

In our own little biome

we traverse our inner courtyard,

round and round.

We break the rules, stretch the rules,

keep the rules

in our own little biome-niche:

time.

We walk the perimeter—

its edge—

borderless, fenceless,

invisible barbs from which we are defenseless.

Time.

When it rains the rains fall,

when it snows the snows fall—

or is that simply singular:

snow,

rain?

that’s all,

each droplet one in the sea,

each flake one in the sea:

Humanity:

you, me:

hair, lashes, skin,

bone, teeth, flesh

to meet the molecules

to meet the cells

that splash and sing among

the DNA

(to meet the solemn moon in its rising).

That’s what I am

barking in the shadows

punctual (right on time)

one tree in this great universal petri dish

forest.

© April 12, 2012 by UT2