A botanist would know, might tell me what this is

A rough dry calx, a ball surounding leafy shoots,

This close I had not seen the like of such before,

Or understood

How ignorant of observation I by nature was;

Have acquiesced in, careless to inquire

By sense or mode what copious variation

Moves things galore

A season or a situation scatters

Wantonly-wise, abundance with some over

No nomenclature fine enough should capture all

Its computation

One sees and does not see unless adverted

And sensitised; brought to a realisation

Of earth’s profuse phenomena concerted:

Mortal Creation

Re-educated from an urban block's hubbubs'

Imperative attention-seeking stir

Its traction on the vacuum where one’s mordant levity

Rests self-assured

And so cut loose from taut determinations

Which lead by nose sleek city-dwelling sorts

Into their honeypot preoccupations

Jailkeeping holds

Acquitted instead, parolled, released, unbounden

Freed indolent to be oneself withal

Sound grounded on what close deliberations,

Upon sensations say

And on what vital furbishments provision

One’s daily round, to astound; give cantilever

Recourse; would solace sullen drudge municipals,

Bestranded Lotus Eaters

Whose goings know not how to estimate

What vibrant amplitudes disclaim their blighted night

And underwrite its countermand with golden stylus

Beneath the moon

Where plentintudes from God, graced and abiding

Renew, are handed round, refreshments scented

With recondite unstated understanding

Infusing sweets

Of prayers heavenwards like transpirations

From leafy bud or flounced fritillary

Dear compliments exuberant from Creation

Lofting away

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