Tell me, does the chrysanthemum
spiral in or out?
Do you follow it into multitudes
an infinity of paths
a million worlds in each drop of dew
each petal a universe?
Or does it speak to you of convergence,
translucent multitudes
folding into a single radiant heart?
Tell me, does the chrysanthemum
spiral out or in?
Does your heart escape confinement,
spread to the sun
embrace infinite living possibility
in bright explosions?
Or fall towards the heart of gravity,
the source of life,
surrendering to the stillness of the center?
I answer: It is the eye that moves.
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