A mist sprays out upon this wood
And lays among trunks dark with living.
A rush of blossoms burst, a good
And worthy show of this world’s giving.
Such rich growth masks what, hiding, must
Fall into what is lost. It’s making
This land and wood, this sun and dust
And all you know. This lack is shaking
All of this world to grow, arranging
It into mountains, oaks, and birds,
To all this world that’s always changing,
To human brains and all our words.
What missing thing is in us all,
That forms all chaos into form,
Transforming information’s call
From icy cosmos cold to warm.
Our warming sun transforms this land,
A world which grows and, changing, cracks
And folds until it shows its hand
In paradox through what it lacks.