Natural Mysteries

 

She tells of onyx-eyed creatures

in a lush, green wombic land:

a garden, won from the wild,

quaking with life:

 

Of hummingbirds sipping sap of succulent leaves.

Of opulent, slow-motion flurries of white and

yellow butterflies hovering above the stamens.

 

There the dew of dawn-colored roses like seeing eyes...

are they the daughters of the sun and languid lake?

 

If I stop stringing words together

the garland of my days will become a death adder;

the eternal oval shall break and become the last line.

 

Will I wither as I near the desert of speechlessness?

Could I fall asleep in wordlessness and not wake up?

Or will I ever stand in God’s garden, born before words?