A Young Man Puts His Head

I walk up to the blooming cherry tree,
put my head in its crown.
My head is enshrouded in
an intricate blur of biologic,
the mycelial ecos,
the endless concatenation of life,
the field.

There are no questions,
no answers,
no truth,
no lies here.

Countless interactions: nonlinear harmony.

There is no life,
no death,

only the field,
this crown of blossoms.

A fractal constellation of ladybugs and their spots is a screen played by my mind,
and my mind is a screen for blossoms.

This is the circle of the field,
its infinite circumference.

On the brink of the circumference,
this is the radius of the field.

Pi is a desperate man's last grab at reality.

There is no equation,
only the circumference,
the radius,
the field.