Lasting Impression

There is a place beside myself inside a time
where sated muses sit upon a pot of soiled rhyme,
pretending nonchalance in planting story seeds.

You enter here through no known wall nor door,
unaware at once of what my wonderings are for
yet ready with applause at these, my simple deeds:

I capture clear a lily curled and drying on a sill;
I hold inside an iron fear, a withered strength of will;
my voice is of the meekly humbled, quietly it pleads.

- - -

There are, housed within the wombs of harvest time,
unborn tales of living inside nine months’ maritime
where we remember not of what it is or where it leads -

but tasting once, we sample air again, and breathe in more;
budding flora filling youthful lungs with life’s allure,
growing overnight at time-lapse photo breakneck speeds.

I know the push of independent sunlight made me ill
as if I rushed from birth to death in one swift angry kill,
and dying, became one who now in every way succeeds.