So who believes the sun and moon
Are spun as light and death combined,
Are melancholic twists of life,
Reflections cast and shadows shone?
And who can feel the planet’s pulse:
A universal burst and void,
A heart which beats as photon’s flow,
A home, a tomb, a silent space?
And who can see the distant spark:
One suffered, born and suffered on,
Through copper sunrise, opal dawn,
The spark which grew from star to speech?
Yet here in grass and flowers uncut,
I see the answer, smell belief.