The ground is fertile and it yearns
for the cool current, how it burns.
The slower flow of life
reaching out, as it must do—
like a hand to light, feeling warmth, every moment new.
The tendrils and the roots seeking more
all life must fight
against the pull of sleep, rest or giving up, the pull of sight.
My eyes, my eyes
they are as open as the skies
I see the growing like no one has.
I walk in beauty, it's all around
blooms bursting open shoots from the ground
like bubbles bursting, open faces thirsting, tiny voices thirsting
I hear ...