So, here I am:
the least in the field.
The bees have been and gone.
They’ve left me a widow,
frazzled and grey,
a breath from dissolution.

The radiance of youth—
that big buttery glow—
is packed away for good.
I’m truly a weed now,
so pedestrian and dull
you’d pass without comment.

My attention turned in,
I forget my appearance,
for deep within deep
devotedly I’m distilling
a miniscule miracle
into humble brown seed.

Here at the source
stasis and growth
are gyrating in spiral,
light becomes matter,
the tiniest speck
viridescent with hope.

It’s the ultimate show,
astounding yet commonplace.
So do not scoff when you
come across my corpse
collapsed on its stalk
balding and wizened.

The seasons have absolved me.
My parachutes open and
I settle into spirit.
The south wind stirs:
in one ecstatic lift-off
I’m going to seed.