The present springs a narrow, selfish force
that swallows up the past in sweet, green lust.
By eons are its habits tuned, of course,
yet on now's tyranny buds go for bust.
"Was not creation a bud that flowered,
uncurling leaves filled from waters above?
World's very edge was emerald then, bowered,
fractal-entangled, self-organized love."
That myth the blossoms chant to zuzzing wings,
practice to croon to butterflies and moths;
but wise grass, rolling soft rain-droplets sings,
'Brute winter rocked and rolled us in its cloths...'
how long ago some low, tenacious thing
did, through earth's gasping cataclysms, cling.
