The order. The order of drifting clouds, tree crowns,
bending grass in the breeze, the descent
and swirl of windblown petals, the hiss
of reeds, the friction and whisper
of green bamboos, the gyration
of yellow pollen on the road, the order
of an exploding storm, the imprint
of lustrous puddles in the mud, crows
circling upwards, a glint of order
of zigzagging swallows, the shiny veins
of leaves on fractal branches, the microstructure
of butterfly wings, the scales of snakes, the unison
rotation of fish, the fluttering flood
of hungry starlings, the cacophony
of hay-smelling and star-scented stridulation,
the order of sea-rising moon magnet,
the breath of wind, the sound
of waves bellowing in the dark,
the booming of blood in your ears, the shuddering
sounds of glass bells on your skin and spine,
the tickle of a grass blade, the crack
of a plummeting pine tree, wild heartbeat—
the lightness of the soul after death,
as it glances back, and sees earth and cloud,
a petal storm and a shiny puddle,
it knows everything at once, if feels without a body,
it twirls yet it doesn’t get dizzy, it floats,
without the desire to exist in its destitution,
because that what was, will be. That is the order.