and if it's just this once, the turn or bend of each petal tapers toward nothing, into a fine emptiness framed by memory, a moment – of one thing or another, a time to decide if each moment is the time you consider how perfect it is in the infinity of choice but if we suffocate because our choices stifle our thinking then why do we try so hard to make memories of moments that shiver with perfection even when my still thoughts entwine this budding tree and witness the slow burst of god-science expressed in time
as time too forgets its own immensity in this plum blossom intoxication. Keep me riveted and alert each spring as winter falls and the hush of mud damps my nose, breathes me alive,