The starship seeds have taken root,
their scales now wings, the soil their womb.
They hum in hues no eye has wept—
their petals plague the moon’s old bloom.

Beware the vines with gravity’s sigh,
that crawl in dreams where grasslands kneel.
They map the clouds, then hum *I am*,
a dirge for dust, a wanton wheel.

But morning hushes, soft and green,
as antennas bloom like dandelions.
The garden breathes—quiet, forgiving,
absorbing worlds in colossal motions.