This diagram, drawn from observations
Gathered over the course of one spring's circuit,
Describes the pattern born
To every cell that opens, and to each
Who forms a capsule or a bud,
And spells from her ovary code
Present at each node, all knowing,
Is a force which feels the cold of long displacement.
Having waited for inflorescence to amend your partial death,
You will break from the gates of the system
And thank your trigger.
That which eludes the intrinsic circle
Provides, by will of exodus, our entrance—
This all will end. And in its shift is the arrangement:
It is freedom to commend, not speak,—
It is freedom to arrest the flux and breed,
The limbs of your bodies outheld.
And to need among the labors of life
Some of that which longs and holds.
Attach yourself to the spiral: that which continues and whirls,
That which outward asks
The whole of the soul's commitments.
The apex is a replica by design, though it seems original.
It extends from us to be seen;
It directs and reveals itself
So that we believe, individually. And only then
Will we recognize ourselves as fitting the surge
And fulfill the promise to that which we believe, unending.
It is the life itself that expands
Once you recognize yourself as one whose cause you've carried
All along. One for which entirety is available, probable,
Already turning toward the sun,
And the burning, and the flower.
Read the original: May 19, 2008