The edges and rhythms
of many forming flowers run through me, as you.
They press me beyond the pages.
They define me beyond words
that I might calm the sea of circles
and walk upon its waters.
In me vertical and horizontal
crave each other and are satisfied.
Certainly patterns matter —
as my father loves my mother
and I am born again and again,
protected by the stable spin,
then extruded by the same
to become an active whole.
The innate impulse to bisect or be bisected
drives the gravid cosmos, perpetuates the plan
that ever turns and rends
that we might be no longer children beyond that season,
but become the active fractal surfer
sowing love on every cycle,
every circumstance, every season,
infusing matter with yet finer patterns.
We abandon our oars and set sail in this dance.
We yield what we cannot keep and gain what we cannot lose.