Dividing the indivisible, in order to understand
Why in all this time I am still in all this time.
There is the infant understanding of the wisteria,
Its photosynthesis and blueness, but not of where
It comes from or why. I can stop waiting, I suppose,
For arrival, for the transport, the metamorphosis
I deserve: To reach into the wisteria itself
And know so intimately its leaves and tendrils
That I too can bloom, fragrant in the warm wind.