Ground me. Plunge me plum-root, 

so burrowed in you

I cannot feel dislocated. I carry 

the carnelian seeds in me, plucked,

puff-play on breeze, dandelion

universe skimming the yellow meadow.

I carry the brash seeds into cosmos-crater,

thousands of miles past moons.

What is darkness, or light, or relativity,

or water, or gasping air-element

to tiny packets in wait,

wafting on your breath? Of what significance

is chaos or time? What is fear 

except when you turn it,

spidery loam rich-ready to receive

what has arrived, little glow hole of home

bursting outward, our

secret sapphire life transplanting new ground.