Bloom

You who thrived where the horse trod,
	where the apple smashed,
who shot up straight where the river sloshed
and rolled, who rose from blood;

	who ran your flag
up from the grifting dune
and pulled a pale sky down,
who budded on a sodden sack or log,

took seed and caught along the track’s edge,
who jinked from crags and where walls slip,
	who broached the lip
of lintels, burst on finial and ledge;

you who tested luck and unluck,
thrift-fed, driven by wind and water,
	frost ticking each petal,
roping root and stem, the black

of black night lost to hope, you
cast the fine day as your fetch
and when it knocked and brought your wish
	and you were found, you grew.