O seductive mystery shape shifting
the caesura before the change,

O fantasy, escape clause: I have been
a scarecrow, an anchorite,

dull as last fall’s leaves,
afraid to leave my own lot.

But in this moment of new spring sun,
I feel that oh so slight shift in the tilt,

as if I could hear a seed cracking open
far under the fading yellow garage,

as if that shiver of sound were a plucked string
that kept vibrating as it split the surface world

to reveal another world, and another—
and we all fell to our knees, singing.