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The plant throws off its body every year,

Peels itself back to seed.

Unencumbered by its skin,

The plant perpetuates the species,

From before the before,

To after the after.

The plant is primary: to our existence,

To the matrix of the life of the soil,

From the ground up,

In defiance of gravity,

Its colorful gesture an imago,

A stationary butterfly,

Bent and windborne by soft summer breezes.

Seed precipitated out of pod,

Sweat off the body green,

Swallowed in color,

Swelling in autumn,

Dropped as hard node,

Packed tight into it’s own essence and food.

Then spring,

A body clothed in thrift shop cotyledons,

Stems, leaves, flower, fruit, seed,

That never does not end,

Like an undammed river,

A road lost in the rain forest,

A bird migration north and south,

Every, and all years,

A blind alleyway that sees no limits.

How comes a plant from a nondescript nodule,

A point of biotic substance,

Seemingly a minute corpse lying supine

In a world of animalcule minutiae and mycelial madness?

The journey begins here for a plant created out of thin air,

Mist,

And the carbonaceous waste of the creative breath.