As in a mantra,
the universe is packed into a seed,
mystical, unseen
dark matter that makes the spaces,
pulls and pushes, engineers
in furnaces of ferment
all of life,
so the tree burns and yet not,
sends its flames, these leaves,
into the water,
turns its fingers round and round,
until,
in this last breath
we spin.
And waking, where are we?
Morning after rain.
The earth a carpet of purple, red and gold,
fragile insects still clambering,
boughs naked,
twigs lean.
To burst again
sprout, and flower, and fruit,
beneath a sky walked clean.

Copyright 2004 by Irene H. Wellman