This is called The Flower.
As far as I know, what this poem, little short poem too,
is about is what it's like to be inside a flower.
What you see from inside out.
It's Bill Matthews who has such a discriminating mind
in these matters.
He's fond of calling me the resident fuzz head.
[LAUGHTER]
And this poem will prove it, I think.
Inside the hood of a plant, the width of an eyelid away,
long, tendrily stamen the length of ourselves
move in the washed light.
Trees, houses, everything, an eye drop of the Earth's water.