“The Steadiness of Hand in the Primordial Plough”

Tending the field

all the seedlings spun

in steady-handed labour

and they are growing,

reciting the nothing

from which a something

Is kindly birthed

And time where it stood,

glacial and still

mirrored in that tree

of decaying pomegranates—

so staunchly lingering.

Despite their death

they hang about,

held to branch

by the finest fibre—

a sylvan spindle

of their supple strength.

So quietly they refuse

to go,

admonished by

the blight of morning—

They plea and decry

their coming and going.

Their resoluteness palpable

as time arises

and births anew—

A lost thought,

A forgotten spectre,

remembered only

by the steadiness of hand

in the primordial plough.