It is spring in the South, &
Purple flowers spatter the horizon,
Breathing out their dense syrup of light & life.
Things look not so different
Though we’re upside down, star gazing
From the fragile venerable earth.
It smells rich & soft, as though we could
Drop back into the fat cloacal mush
From which we writhed
(& thought we rose)
A few seconds ago, in the time
It took the eternal clock to factor the passage of light
Through matter, into consciousness.
Sitting in this most ancient garden I contemplate
The pregnant predestined chemistry
That made possible our vulgar growth:
Millions of us, wriggling & squirming,
Worms eating into the carcass
Of this tiny ball of mud & fire
That has sustained us, despite the chance
That some great lump of jagged rock could
Flick us with nonchalant indifference,
Knocking us sideways into some turbulent emptiness
A few million light years away.