The clay in a pot
is the movement of desire through silence.
The winged seed travels
to the hand that kneads a fist of breath.
As the ground dips under moisture
at the limb of the river
the seed sprouts into a pale sapling.
The sharp October sun
pierces through the squint in the eye
to the undergrowth of memory.
The pearl diver dark and slick with oil
like the sinuous serpent of an eclipse
when it swallows the moon,
drops into the stillness of unbecoming.
My Garden 