I met the thing, a solace

To the whole for but a natural rhyme and as a seedling

Leaning deftly, sifting energies and gracenotes from the sun, breathing

Freshly gathered light, a sacrifice of self to self to manifest largess;

By choice, a certitude robed in servitude, sweet volition made

Weathered, shrunk, and wedded to the greater or the lesser daylight gains.

Swelling actions often stagger in the night’s timed shadow’s pains

As simple growth, or guided by the healing spade

And shears–a graft, perhaps–something more substantial

Than what nature had bestowed and then some; fertile

Gifts of place to place and thus in time, itself, beyond the servile

Sum of all its parts; a mortal substance thus a circumstantial

Harvest of perception, there because it’s seen, a simple glory

Asking nothing but an audience to a brief pedestrian story.