Aglow

Souls in the throes of being beckoned into bloom,

are not, like human bodies in the womb,

insensible to stages of their own construction:

indeed they monitor their phases of production

with a curiosity quite like an infant brings

to looking in a mother’s eyes: enjoying wellsprings

of surprise at their new vast capacities of seeing,

undisguised, how elements of love engender being:

bubble-like, inviting trouble, cataracting into fizz,

without which you would never know what passion is,

then permutating into nano-bits that burrow in

the soft smooth folds of Soul’s equivalent of skin:

the force that through the green fuse drives the flower

soon entirely arrives to bring about, and power,

the exorbitant expanse of what a Soul will tuck

into the Soul’s equivalent of pants: nerve and pluck

that grant the Soul its muscularly tempered substance:

evincing throughout all a soft hubbub of sense

that vibrates through the essence of the core of you,

to underscore the certainty that there is more of you,

always more of you, aglow

with what you cannot know.

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