Annunciation

Perfect…almost,

But not quite,

The pristine lawn

With my prints upon it,

Deep, deliberate,

I am a bud

Newly picked,

Unopened, and yet

The corruption has

Already begun,

The descent to

Inevitable decay

And death;

Unsullied,

Unperturbed

And yet, within

I can already feel

The flutter

Of filament wings

Thrusting petals

From dark roots,

The tick, tick tick

Of tiny heart

And fingers that

Unfurl through villus

Veins, pulsing capillaries,

The shout of shoot

To bare translucent bone

In virgin soil,

The everyday miracle

Of conception,

Though I shrink

From the world �"

Immaculate.