Photography

I wrote this poem a few years ago, just read it for the first in a very long time and it evokes for me a sense of freedom and exploration I haven't felt in quite a while.

Like van Gogh’s cedar trees,
reaching.
Like a Wyeth field,
breathing.
Reflections mirroring back
the examination of other worlds,
worlds within worlds.

A flower.
No bigger than my fingernail
yet within its closed petals,
thinner than an eyelid,
there are other worlds.
And beyond its stem and leaves, more worlds.

The endless cycle of birth and death.

This is just one small flower
in an ancient forest.
But what of me?
What is born and what dies
just in the space between breaths?
How many worlds within me?
And how many worlds will I discover
just by turning left when I meant to go right?
Who am I then,
to sit here alone,
a beggar at the banquet.