From a nest of dark root and sponge,
among the frenzy of greens
arises this one small star
into thin sliced light. A vinca jewel.
It cannot be made unbeautiful
in tease of sun or muddled drear.
A commoner of perfection, it come to me a salve,
its color a prize released from stealth of ivy
for my eyes which open, close, open.
Treetops impale and tug March clouds,
are watchful as I rest and rise;
nodding fans of ferns kiss
my legs, musky beds of moss
suffer my hands and feet.
I live here, too, and from wherever
this day arrived it now follows elegant
lines, spasms of light and the succulent shade,
bringing sky to rustle of feathers
to this skin I wear as poor if valiant shield.
See, they each bear me down to the river
so I may siphon off miracles.
Savor every proof of life.
Be rescued again.