Smudged fingerprint of the ancient yellow nebula, you know how to sing the fugue of the pinecone. If your elements amount to less than your own image in a reflecting pool, there is nothing more to sing; you curl in your singularity. Calling your own name on something slightly less than yourself, and calling your name on something twice diminished. Doing this entangles ferns in asymmetrical embraces. Doing this reconciles the drift of seasons and meteors, and the roiling of the tide with the lonesome swimmer, and the chamomile’s phyllotaxis, its consecutively incrementing radii. Warp and weft of the planet’s loom, weaving something like the drunken heart of a sunflower.