In some place
Like in so many others
For this moment
The plant is attached to the tip of the world
The balance of flat and broken and empty
Of dots and leaves and feathers
Depends on
One very thin line
In a way that is unknown to us
The open chord of feathers in the moving air
Is perfect
For those who also like dots on a white surface
This is a rock
For children
Who make rocks and plants
From dreams.
intuitiveflow 