So I came out tonight to sit in this
Christmassed conservatory,
The tree near-perfect but for bare spots,
We all grow and have our bare spots.
Paper whites blooming here, and
Summer stragglers building to next spring,
Rosemary in pots,
Hibiscus
And jasmine maybe, bougainvillea
That I brought in for winter.
And out here, in a small pot
A peacock's feather and a very small
Painting, from Haiti,
In the painting the children are
Playing with swords.
Our friend brought us these things.
He wrote history about Haiti, fiction,
Voudon, and
About France.
And I put the peacock feather
Into the small pot,
With tall curly twigs
I've kept because they're so pretty
And a year or two later, lo, the twigs
Had small, pale mossy leaves on them
Airborne, quite literally, no
Living medium except air's alchemy
Nurturing organics of the earth that every
Spring time bloom,
And so ten years on, I will not
Change much, or mess with this
Infinitesimal grand plan thriving
In a certain light
In a certain place in this old
Farmhouse, knowing,
Finally, as I do here in this mystery
That I am but a nanosecond,
Just passing through.
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