We were born to create,
rising from mud, wild flowers
different as fingerprints or
the bodies of trees.
And our names roll sweetly
unfolding- tongues of butterfly
eating sweetness, clutching the stamen
with our frail, hooked fingers.
What travels on wind, aimlessly,
settles in cracks of stones or
carried downstream to new ground
re-creates where it came from.
Meanwhile, no amount of oblivion
or intolerable season can stop us
from making or being everything