when finally confronted
with the entirety of it

will all the tiny folds
overwhelm us?

will we grasp madly
at shadows?

howl at the moon?
or will we settle

into remembering the impossibility
of the hummingbird’s beating heart

the rain's slap and rhythm
the heavy scent of leelawadee?

despite everything
contracting and receding

won’t we want to lean
into the final soft bloom

to look up
and browse the clouds?