Sedge and Cyperus

Camouflage for exquisite wrens
no bigger than fairies, orchestra
for breeze, a cover story for water
not yet ready to join the lake. 
Sit down and part our stems, instead
of scalp you’ll find full lips.
Air heavy for dragonflies to hover
and for you to smell the truth of living
things breaking down.  We are a litany
of autumn: starbursts of gold and green
and brown. Titans of Silicon Valley
want to freeze their bodies – what about us?
This inflorescence: five spikes right here,
like fingers.  Not many people notice us,
no soldier on shift saw the baby chosen
by God who spoke to his mother.  Cradled
by us, Moses lived a long and blessed
life, but he did not live forever. 

I would like to acknowledge the Arakwal people of the Bundjalung Nation who are the traditional custodians of the land where the Byron Writers Festival is held.