Recursion
Yet once more, we plunge down the hill
in a nose dive that rolls into somersault
and somersault
and somersault
until the knoll flattens and
gravity glues our backs to the forage.
We lay a minute, nestled in the blades,
fragile like a flower is fragile,
laced into the soil with a lark’s head
until plowed over by a tractor.
I was a dreamer, once; when your voice raised
I’d think of fractals and blooming orchids,
life outside the mason jar.
Yet once more, we plunged down the hill.