Fractals

"Not to go all postmodern on you, but

that's assuming that there's such a thing 

as a stable or defined self." ES, June 25, 2016

I.

You are a fractal burst, an ever-spinning gyre. 

The wild blueberries are still hard and green,

but it is summer. Dusk sifts downward, pollening

the landscape. Woodsmoke, tobacco, pine.

II.

We perch atop the lichen, so exposed
that songbirds stop our speech. In the hum
that follows, we compare notes on art
and humanity, our minds rushing in our ears.

III.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer--
Flicking filters into the underbrush, I come home
with singed fingers, then watch the fireflies
speak in fractals, floating in loops in the dark.