Bestrewn Sin

You’re such a difficult possession
For a body to experience,
A new kind of parasitism

To go along with all the ancients,
And yet most ephemeral of all,
Not unicellular, not a phage,

Not even another form of life,
Not even, exactly, a hunger—
A disturbance in the signaling

Of the systems already evolved,
As if, when a wind sifts through the trees
In the blossomy apex of spring,

That breeze and the floral chemistry
Combined to create an alien
Impossible without both of them

But not belonging to either one,
Not solely the production of trees
That can’t propel signals far themselves,

Nor of the wind, which has no signals,
Only whatever data it pulls
Along with it around the planet.

But you’re not scent; you’re not blossoming,
Either. You’re a tendency that could
As well prevent as assist seedlings.

You’re a trait the body’s dependent
On now, can’t not have, can’t live without,
Too late, and you’re difficult as sin,

Which is, after all, only one more
Of the many attributes bestrewn
With you through the body, on the wind.