Walking past their abundant carelessness

which crawls weed-like in cresses of colour

an ignorance of glance caught me stumbling

when a single bloom fell upon my path,

whose sheen and shape sat in my palm

until I pressed it well to keep it safe.

Their lineage of name sought and found

I thank our botantist Carl Linneaus

for imagining what I had not imagination

to see.


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Midnight’s day

A midnight stream draws birds to drink,

a moon-sun which rises to bathe their wings

and quench their thirst from the heat of  day.

Lamps light cicada turf, faint signs of a chorale

to last all summer as night forgets to nap.

My chorister flutes away, a voice echoing

into the shining coves of sleeping eaves.


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