I begged my Lord for any desert acre, and behold what I have become!
No barren fig this: a tree of life,
a sporocarp, a pod, Aquarius’ vessel endlessly pouring.
I am swept to sea with nature’s tide
Yet tumbling in the foam, retain
the caul of certainty that covereth mine head.
So powerless never, nor never so content.
And within, my magnum opus,
a spark, a tiny soul, homunculus;
like begetting like, begetting life.
My form yields to the blinding beauty of my function –
what gardener, I, who grieves the blossoms?
But turn thy face from spring, O woman,and wait for harvest.