A Poem by Richard Loranger

At the heart of this month blooms a myrtle. I am saying that because
I want it to be. And in that way I have made the world, for an
incomprehensibly small moment. And that is how the world is made,
not by people, not by gods, but by everything wanting. Everything.
The leaf gropes sun. Rock reaches for its inner bonds. Fire eats. And
somewhere in the world there is a myrtle blossom, tender, vibrant,
freshly bloomed and ripe, wanting you.