I watch the plants grow hands instead of leaves,
a pair for every stem. The fingers wave
to winds I cannot feel, and—grasping—crave
in mindless need to clutch my legs, my sleeves.
I reel away. The hands, like eager thieves
who plot to take my coin, reach out and brave
my vigilance—to take, to wound, enslave.
Or have I been the one who misperceives?
The fingers cup around a lifeless form
and, lacking lungs, still give it breath to grow:
a human born of plants and also borne
by vegetative palms that writhe and swarm
to floral growth—not faunal thoughts; breath low,
I watch in awe, my preconceptions torn.
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Daniel Ausema‘s poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Small Wonders, and Fantasy Magazine, as well as previously in Kaleidotrope, and been nominated for the Rhysling and Elgin Awards. He also writes prose, with many short stories—including in previous issues of Kaleidotrope—and several novels published. He lives in Colorado and can be found online at danielausema.com. | |