This pot I’ve been stirring,
I’ve been stirring so long
that my stirring stick
has begun to bloom—
or am I the one being stirred?
This skin I’ve been wearing,
I’ve been wearing so long
is the skin of my predator—
or am I the one being worn?
What is not in blossom?
Even this body, shackled
and gaunt, even the stick
cut from the tree.
We are all wands,
instruments of some
incomprehensible,
fertile magic