not by meaning,
we fall precisely through
the ornamental

and find the original space;
but lazily,
it doesn't matter.

the western hedge,
after the clover - a new tide
laps the meadow;

a perfume lingers
there, but is always passing.
it isn't a matter

of color anymore:
it's so familiar - like touching
our own skin.

we occupy our place
completely,
not by knowing