not one in a hundred million swimmers reaches the egg
seeds fare only little better it seems
save one which landed in just the right warm cow droppings in my pasture
took root, fought its way through two wars, too many dread droughts to count, a fire that took a third my herd and a hired hand, the passing of my wife, and some numbered portion of my life
under a harvest moon, black armed and brittle, it still stands, stardust reincarnated times infinity
more than once I took axe to field but its execution was always stayed
now the tool's too heavy to swing; the blade blunted by time
and this night, I can see its shadows on silver ground, receding silently in lunar light, preparing for a dawn the mesquite will greet, with or without me