The time of renascence

The stem is bowed -
the petals shriveled.
All seems wasted
and soon to dissolve.
Yet deep inside;
a spark composing -
a fallow ground staying
for the precedent
of embryonic flowing
into primitive resurrection.

A froth of wings
flutter against sweeping
azure reaching across
the eye’s canvas.
Its clement weeping
enfolds the earth
in transparency;
stippling the landscape
with moonstone
effervescence.

Hands part the sky -
brushing away the stars
to expose the endless void
from which the knowing
seed has sprung.
A soft invocation
calls forth another myth -
a dream body germinating
inside the world’s spirit.
Expelled upon solid ground.

Again.


2003 Melissa Songer