Though bent this way and that, my stem unbowed
is not yet blown out. On wind I’m waiting
my discharge: a seed globe of beginning,
held in hundredfold even feathers proud
and parachute-ready, to jump as crowd.
Breathless for that stronger, candle-snuffing
puff a child who pauses will instinctive bring
to spread, on lawns about, my germ dust cloud.
Too late. By pensive fingers now I’m gripped
and dipped. In glassy gaol my frailty caught,
forever fixed, an ageless unwrapped fate.
A lucid gift, admired as much for weight
of workmanship, to blustery papers brought.
Through resinous skill, see my clock is stopped.
xi. 2015
