Is discomfort a sign that we are out of place?
At night, like the morning, in a sealed tunnel,
the sun and the moon too far to reach us with translucent arms,
butterflies’ lips, birds’ wings.
We translate the outside inward: what is living?
Sharing a planter with a few weeds,
easy to obtain yet they warm our hearts.
They are likely to take over, but who can deny
that feeling crowded is almost like living.
And so we wait for our own blossoming,
the only kind of nature which surprises the environment.
Trapped roots on a pottery floor
we imitate the sound of closeness, the rain breathing, light,
whispering to ourselves, water water, wind wind
is that how it feels to live?