or fractals of moose antlers
velveted in spring,
rising into copper sky—
ishpiming.
The water-winged
unreality of delicately scored
and mottled lily pads,
olive and crimson mandalas—
a scatter graph across
the impossible the blue.
These discs of foliage,
tessellations of bone.
Their submerged rhizomes—
ours, how they tattoo us
with the script
of place,
with language shapes
root-deep—
with knowing.