Fruit from the tree

Is the acorn aware of its own capacity?
Is a caterpillar of its metamorphic potential?
What do I know of such monumental exercises of will
Wrapped tightly as I am in these finite linens?
When truth is all around like ether
It is almost impossible to conceive
Without a significant collision

Solitude

I was already late when I bumped into solitude
I pulled it along for company
I was running into a wood head first
Getting my face grazed by the moon
(It felt like yoghurt, by the way)
I rushed ahead of myself so as not to lose nerve
And I had to remind myself that I am not the enemy
But a simple troglodyte entranced by fires
That the many-worlds are dripping with probability
And that nothing is more sacred
Or more profane
Than love

Crumbs

RedInWhite
Rich starkness of winter
Is an arrow in my throat
Weighty and gravid
It calls on me to attend
To the flake’s fractal fullness
In its desolate wall-to-wall white
A fleck of red in its deep brown
A softening in the center just as
Earth’s crust shakes off crumbs
Into the depths of my landscape