the germinator

you were not the young rain
that slid into the raw roots
of my mother,
but the single swirl of sunlight
to penetrate her shriveling petal of logic,
heal the stem of reason
where the viscous hint of my being once lay and ergo,
bewitched every sane blossom that might have bloomed
in me into brilliant buds of artistry

a veil of nettles is draped over magnolia moonlight,
a feverish curtain; you are near.