On seeing a tree after sixty days, I marvel at the forest-green, the gaping yellow,

as if the self is falling into the mouth of a great yawn. To fall is also a meditation:

there is a moment before, non-silence, non-sentient. Almost like the slow shedding

of colour when mother beats her salwar against the marble. You look away, as a pattern,

understand that to look is also to allow the possibility of beholding- your hands,

pointing to the deep hue of the leaves, the repetition, the fern singing with meaning.

Fractals, in nature, are seen as blooming with “infinite intricacy”, that is:

an entanglement which refuses to end. A complication that drives off into endlessness.

Next to us, someone hugs someone else, also as a pattern. Next to us, people kiss,

hold, sit close. Lay their heads on each other’s chests. Next to us, the world-

Next to us, the torn leaf we hold in our hands. The burden of a fractal, unable to replicate.

Next to us- us, leaf, forest-green, the cold icy heaviness of space. To articulate it

is also to silence it.