see, it’s this specific
seed, with
the monarch’s need
having ceased,
with all that sap
tapped
having been
dipped
into and sipped
flittingly,
it’s this seed’s
metamorphoses
of cellulose to silk,
a floss
so insistingly soft in her
offering, having been
given this
much volume
within her skin
that stops me and makes into me
a surrendering contemplative
and by that I mean: see
how the pod
can do nothing
but ultimately
cede to this
division, where her dam of milk
-weed
skin
has, though not suddenly,
(invisibly, it seams, unseams, within, listen…
…)
thrust her heft
against the quartered horn to force
her hull-throat to open
to wind’s casual oscillation
once, it's worth
the weight,
it’s risen
