Of Folding, Unfolding

Life expands
iteration upon iteration,
spiral arms reaching,
veins shot through
with magic's
milk of
making.

Besotted
with change,
expression, this
is its promise land, its
horizon unblemished
by tempest. Open,
open—.

Fusing
possible
with eventual
on a scale unimaginable,
yet, miraculously
visible, even in
the gloaming,
the fall of
night,
ever
unclear to
naked sight.

Even as
winter
watches its
shadows weave
the starry
scape.

A bloom long
past her bees,
days blithe, dancing
mid sunbeams, swallowing
moon shapes, tides,
offers nectar to
this flesh,
still.

Hers a beauty
unlike her
summer
self.

Seeding
my stand of
elder, rising
her sap.

Bearing
this wash
of quieter color,
more august, now
days turn to a
higher arc
of light,
borne as
totem
for cycles
of succession,
accession—
ever casting
their clays
upon the
wheel.

As all
such fade
into the
teem of
black
earth.

Only to
rise in the
worm's wake,
the springtails'
sustenance,
a lamb's
suckling,
rafts of new
blossoms fed
in the womb
of timeless
by the old,

pollinated
as they
pollinate

anon.

∞|∞

Eve Moore ©2026