Bizarro Narcissus

I sowed a seed
Underneath the oak tree
I trod it in
With my boots, I trampled it down
Grow, grow, grow, grow

Stopping in awe of the presence of perfect conditions to catch the sight that most compels me: the sun and its absence defined by me and some trees. Wringing my mind with the writings of a master set to music, our collective first language. Recognizing that entertaining romantic thoughts about my outline against the lake in white powder form is still only my same old everyday obsession with my own shadow. One step forward, one step back.