Packed in this egg sac
we wait in the quiet
like soldiers in a horse-stomach.

The world is not yet
ours. We are too young
to understand possesion.
We must speak to the orchids,
ask them how they bloom,
what impulse arouses their
explosion of elegance
into empty space.

Whatever urges such escape,
we are lacking. In the dark,
it is ours to find.