We’ve opened, unfurled our hearts and minds
Slow as blossoms.
Not remaining, precious petals wide
Like a sunflower, once open, open till we wither,
Vulnerable to rain and rebuttal,
But as a morning glory, suddenly revealing our viscera,
Painted all the colors of our many faces.
With the heat we’ll contract again,
But it’s useless.
So much damage and so much good
Can happen as we see those scraps
Forming a time quilt,
Through the eye of a needle.
Humans are unstable when we try to help—
Our aid is tainted by inextricable self-interest.
Why do we trip with the best intentions?
Is this a test or are we all bloody dimwits?
This emotional safe-cracking is so familiar.
Different eyes, same rigmarole,
A reincarnation of truth.
How can we know the real state of rebirth?
Is there an improvement each time we re-blossom
Or does each rotation follow a sequence,
Unshakable as Fibonacci’s, that which formulizes the beauty
Of our sunflowers and morning glories?