There is no land with fields so broad,
So strewn in
auric grandeur such
Upon its heads
alfalfa sprouts
Appealing to the heavens much,
Or lofty ‘neath the pregnant beds
That
air may dare a
tender touch
So once a
jaded vermin said:
“
Be fleeting wary bygones hushed!”
Some seek this set for cometh kin
In lands abroad without the sun
Or flora for the
naught of rain
And
earthen sheets where rivers run –
But make the muck
their own alcove
To sew their seeds by their
blazon
Thus
leavening their low abodes
So
later they may put maize in.
Written on 21 February 2006.