Pangaea

Within old soils there is no age, no strife.
Buds, branches, bulbs and
Primeval knowing move in
Unattended rhyming with
Each change of space, each season,
The breaking apart coming from
Tides and stars, destiny
Not of your intent,
For now, though, you do not have to move
From your homeostasis.

It has come at some cost.

There will be respite when
You return to mystery,
When life will be nothing more
Than what it was that
You have told.