Think how the seed,
the stalk, and the blossom
are one. But how soon
the seed disperses
as it somersaults
from the stalk,
poised, windblown,
suspended on a breath.

Even in negative space—
the arc of the seed—
the hollow of the air
it transects—
blank canvas of space
between elbows and arms—
looms the shape of a dove.

If we could assemble
the missing pieces,
our lives could dovetail.
Remember the dove,
as she gathers straw
to line her nest,
disperses the seed.

Windblown fields
over the dark earth
shower gold
before falling.

Nothing is spotless for long,
even the lamb, newborn,
emerges tinged off-white,
matted with straw.
Yet darkness makes room
for that small pinpoint of light.