In time, the wind pulls seeds from the husk
at will, by season’s determination.
Nothing stops this, not all the wishes
in the world.
I slip out on the wire of air,
An acrobat in my own invisible life,
One foot upon what’s known, one foot lifted
on the hidden path of desire.
What drives such performance is a mystery,
resists even the hardest resolutions
not to fall.
The inevitable descent,
gravity
plunges a seed to unpredictable landing, into sand
or rich soil, to a foreign field, the debris of rebirth.
