Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
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Mandalas of excellence,
white jonquils regiment themselves
over a frosted morning as
the quills of the world’s hand
take flights into fists
who know the right motions.
New plants rise from the earth
silent, like those ideas
which rose in the moonhue.
The verdure of earth is a handwritten page
and although its clarity is truth,
its obscurity is also great.
Such it is with these mandalas of excellence
who throw themselves at my plexuses,
begging to be born,
Dying for translation into intelligible form
where humanity can read in fine characters
of the coming of dawn.