Dandelions, grand babies, the song and its chorus,
eyes and clocks orbicular for spherically sound strata.
The line of time we see is the spine of the circle,
circumference laid out, mystery's furrow.
Give us a forest and stroke it with wind,
we understand seasons and life's fodder, what's interim.
Give us some heat, some rain, putrefaction
and mushrooms rescind all disbelief
for that which seals its seam to proliferate...
aha! - overnight someone/something
after all isn't stuff the articulation of starlight
and dust the dissemination of the sonata.