This Strange, Funny Thing

An almond: ruddy, half sunken in soil,
curves slitting, sleeve-creasing
around a rounded well. Grinning:

“I am unlimited space;
the opening flourish of thunder,
of cartwheels and canons,
the gaping resonance of lone notes and melon-bellied mothers
whose arms and eyes are rapt and wizened
with the hilarity of new, familiar things.

All bursting faintness of being writhes with me.
But I do not wait for you.”