Like a jellyfish, the kind they claim can live forever—
cycling through phases like a moon,
     bequeathing over and over to yourself
all your earthly belongings, owner
and heir of eternity, but
equally, equally.

Like a sandbank in a level, nightlong rain,
               dissolving
into what contains you, what erodes you,
what engraves you.

With precision,
like the pressing forth of jonquils tongues
              through snow.

With pent joy, like a spinning seed.
Or like a seedling newly leafed,
unfolding
  to its first sun.

Or a seed crystal,
vigilant—though long inured to loneliness—
leaning to catch the first click
          of latticing.

And long,
until you almost hear what
      may never come.

And again,
as if you’d long ago heard it once before.

And gladly, gladly,
as if everything you’ve heard of it
              is true.