Proof

What is it you expect to see? The moon reflecting answers
in the petals of my face, that light that falls from stars and pools
over my feet to the painted grass? But what has my face
or form or feet to do with who I am? My mind is the bulb
of my self, the root to every shoot of blossom
on the silkscreen of my world. I can prove it to you.
My thoughts flow from my head through my tongue or here,
I can write them down. These are the flowers I have plucked
just for you. Or to put it another way - I’ll show you.
Give me your handkerchief and that flower
from your buttonhole. Now the lilies spring from
the dark soil of my hair, the loam of my eyes.
It is no illusion. There is no part of me that I do not
own, nothing I cannot breathe into existence or grow.
I can hear every word the wood is whispering.
I can see how your feet shift so nervously on the ground.