And if I found in me
a spot of land where
anything could grow—
some miraculous soil
that knows only yes—
then what would
I dare sow?
In such tender
territory, even breath
might take root.
A whisper becomes
a seed becomes
an unknowable
flowering. A song,
of course, I’d
plant a love song.
But imagine if,
as I knelt, lips to earth,
a loneliness spilled
from my pockets,
strewing its millions
of tired spores
throughout the plot.
And what if an arrow
from an old wound
chose then to dislodge?
Is it in fear or in joy
I dance at the edge
of inevitable fertility, longing
for the impossible—
to plant only beauty,
its fruits reseeding
all around us growing
only more beauty,
more beauty.