Poem

Because, I’ll admit it, I have a need,
To pull this back upon itself, the whole thing,
Through a series of words, the entire house and yard,
The growing up and into thick shades of grass

Hand sown with seeds that might fall
As anything would from a tree, a cloud, her lips
With a soaking rain that brings red bricks
Into the fluid expressions of a single face

Found on a stone of three million years
And the short lived me beyond myself
Without keeping or losing anything because
The handful was dropped anyway as it is

Only open air in the palm and passing emotion
As solid as the ground and clear as the winds
Where a person can then stand forgetting thoughts
As they are everyone else’s for the matter, only acorns,

Each is a single seed coated in exterior leather
As they hang, fall and lay in the landscape
Which includes orbiting satellites, a moon,
A steady interior with a slow, quiet rotation.