“Ask me the time and I point to the sun—“

But what of the shadow
dear to the sundial,
or the moss that lines
cracked patio tiles?

What of the breathing
of fish through winter,
and the rushes that carpet
the bottom of the pond?

What of the flowers
whose white throats open
only once, before folding
back into themselves?

 

In response to Via Negativa: Proverbial (7).

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