Your Farm

Human faces grace

amorphous forms,

adorned  by squiggles –

germinating seeds arising

from the rows you’ve hoed

in your internal fertile farm:

nascent evanescent feeling

undertaking the beginning

of a randomly revealing

charmed adventure

fed by pulses of intention

you can’t claim as yours.

All the tours you’ll take!

None of them are urgent.

A presence waits to come in

you have not imagined,

can’t imagine – imminent,

emergent – pressing up

against Existence’ skin.

Whatever’s in wants out:

whatever’s out wants in.

.