by Ruth Stone
“Tremble,” says the sword-grass, leaning over the water.
“Oh yes,” the water-fractals sing, writhing in temporal ecstasy,
“Toward is inevitable. Fall to the center.”
“Rushing, always rushing,” sighs the larch, brushing the sky.
“Your roots are not deep enough. Try harder.
Apply yourself.” On the milkweed, the larvae of the monarchs
grow agains the pulsing heliosphere. “We must die
and be born again. The clouds of our endless selves
image the chrysalis. Yes, to become is the meaning.”
“Look,” says the void. “What meaning? Be thou me.”
–Read at St. Lydia’s on January 15, 2012