for dverse poets
A pulse is a personal thing, we think;
ebb and flow of blood is proprioceptive;
the cycle of our months and seasons
are private matters.
Forgetting your call to eggs and seeds;
your prediction of our tempestuous tides;
your nightlight to our darkness;
romantic or lonely, busy or still.
All of us dance to your lead.
Our planet’s ecology has an offset heart –
misleadingly considered lifeless.