But the fact
the tendril creeps around the tree
and might have been doing so for hundreds of years
is not important.

It is not important
that the forest floor is padded with pine needles
or that ferns suddenly proliferate
where sunlight reaches.

The thistles leak their foam at midday and this
is not important. In the time it takes
to write this it was sunny and now it has darkened.
Nor is rain important.

What remains then is the awkwardness
of being alive, the unshakeable awareness
of self as intrusion, and the ridiculousness
of consciousness.

Even the windhover
has no idea what tradition it’s in;
death not Romeo takes
its maidenhead.