the buds look like folded hands
praying | self-baptizing | cells blistered
in a waxing rigor | then open all up
like puckered mouths struck by laughter
Is the air, in and out
of my lungs, part and parcel
to a season’s drift into season?
Where would we be, out of the air?
Having days without weather
foundering, lost like a groundless
facile science, ungodly as a vacuum.
The weather is having us, we’re
in its pocket, under its watch
drumming in its rain, breathing in its
cloudless pomp, adrift in its seasons.
At all times, where we are
it seems to know.
stippled with queenly bees
in the leaf green light
pathogens and spermatozoa
fractal rabbits, weeds
to seeds: all that’s made is
in the making, thumbed index
to the book of life
every fold, every crevasse
swollen with ripeness
even the crossing signals
seem to urge us lovingly