From a blue nothingness I extend
From possibility into being.
The strokes of my brush
Creating as I go.
I come from that.
Serendipitous images of vortex:
Liquid stalactites, a golden curl, a story of wind vortices in the pine trees,
the flow of my garden, the shape of my core.
Moving, now a vertical undulation
Spiraling into a Fourier transform
Here I am, in the place to which I’ve come.
Now I must risk, be vulnerable
Willing to look back up the cervix of the vortex. To my source.
Die a small death and reside there.