The lily ponds are in bloom now, so here’s an old poem that came from one.
In Curious Convolution
To be sentient is to awaken in deciduous content
among ferns of knowing unfurled
beneath certainty’s shattered blossoms.
It is to live in a garden overgrown
with cultivars of caution and abandon,
where the thin stems of prudence rise
among broadleaved discretion
over bulbs of white, aromatic desire,
a garden where hybrid forms
of vined chance and ivied intent climb,
cling in curious convolution,
where every throat is a muted chorus
of song sparrows hidden
in shadowed thickets of motion and meaning.
To be sentient is to live, constantly,
among coniferous reckonings
where volition is a rust-orange groundcover
spreading towards a dark pond
scattered with rose and cream petals
with the dusty gold stamen of dreams.