Spring Song, Late

Repetition is the elixir.
Past is prologue to a never
ending series of prologues,

the way the light bends
around time, inescapable
as equations, so set to rhythm

as two is to four.
Indiscriminate yearning,
the flower for the bee,

the loaf of the flour
finds disconnections inherent
and lacking, so simple yet

inelegant. The way the mind
bends into a furrow,
together unyielding cycles,

spokes as yet unheard of,
real echo in the distant canyon.
A mask is the best decision.

Repetition is the flower.