Why else does the immensity of this space exist bound by the heaviness of this sea and cliff but for the most delicate of forms to sway and flow in the mimicry of something ineffable like a floral jellyfish or an illuminated nautilus whose static dance inhabits the gestures of Isadora Duncan stinging this spiral between weight and weightlessness?
The gentle bloom unfolds. Its fruit a shield. The flower a star. Its warm dough a heart. The petals a pinwheel. Its seeds a portal back into the unfolding bloom.