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hurdles  exist for a while but those who are shrewd sense unfolding gaps

I watched an ant drag a fresh leaf
Across the edge of a jagged stone
In circles, as if compelled by a design.

In winter, I see it also:
Six skeletal limbs bespangling in the air.
They fall, softly, and merge with the snow.

And once, in a sunflower,
I saw an endless field of seeds spiral.

Even the earth spins upon its axis,
And returns, and goes off spinning again.
A dance, but we see it as mere chance?

Who told the leaf to make its stem,
Or a snail to form his helix?

Fibonacci knew, tracing quiet
Circles in his upper room.

(on a rainy May thirteenth
two thousand and twenty five)
as a balm against ennui
becoming engrossed, immersed,
and lost in space of orrery
regarding the universe created courtesy
Nora Roberts well crafted novel Montana Sky
perusing said realistic fiction
as if inebriated
with one hundred proof liquor
experiencing drunken stupor
merely from evocatively written story
and subsequently
envying such craftsmanship
incorporating her gushing wellspring
plentifully populated
with seat of the pants suspense
interwoven with the tapestry

I will not let him steal my happiness.

I will look at the sky,
The wide immeasurable expanse of blue
With streaks of white bleeding through.

I will admire the ocean
As great mountains of water
Crash against a coarse coast.

I will look at the road and imagine how
It curves and flows into strangely familiar places.

And yet,
In all of this,
I still run into his face.

I see his warm eyes in the sun.

I find his mind in the deep depths
Of the azure ocean.

And I discover that,
Somehow,

If they find me bleached and dismembered
in a shallow grave behind the schoolhouse,
the archaeologist who carefully dusts my skull
and measures the contours of my pelvis
will not have the context to know much but

There is more to me than skin and sinew
blood and bone on a museum placard;
the archaeologist might find my pronoun pin
or the locket from my grandmother or
some other cultural artifact that proves

I once built a life in the body that I was given,
moved stiff limbs on rainy mornings and
created for myself some semblance of identity,

shrouds of  mint spring breeze, 
blackbird lilts, garden hue splurge, 
my budding heart blooms

What if all was made,
The swift breeze,
The crystals, azurite and jade,
The little mouse’s little sneeze,
In an instant,
Just this moment?
You were never a crying infant,
Never a tender child,
But just now, fair and mild,
You appeared, with memories
Made and sheared, to match
Our friends,
And to tread
Onward without a clue
Where it ends.
If we were never born,
Came out of the blue,
Will we really ever be dead?