The Fruit Leaves The Tree
Here in long grass
invisible.
That finger so tight
just turned loose—the one
binds planet
to commas, to question marks.
Why let us fall?
Far-reaching arms, galactic leaves,
excrescence of infinity?
We’re not worth keeping?
Served your cycle?
Tired of blossom?
Old, seedlings sprouting wings?
Don’t say, our own trajectory.
Don’t say, drawn by resistless force.
Crash. Impact.
A new world’s planted.
Only the cycle matters.
Fifteen Poems and Drafts Introduction
In Celebration of Eleanor Ross Taylor