Koru

Within its spill,

ferns unfurl from its rigidity,

each coil butting outward in silent obeisance to its late sisters.

Where time does not sever but wantonly spirals instead,

each curling frond a bridge between the bygone and impending.

                Perhaps a turning of breath?

Roots drink the remnants of bones before

dissolving into the humus of its mothers passed, 

death folds forward into bloom.

From darkness sweet with yesterday,

Each curve a memory of,

death and birth entwining.