“Well Met this Thing”
Well met this thing, a solace
To the whole as in a natural rhyme, a seedling
Leaning deftly, sifting energies, a grace note 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; a fertile
Gift 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 story
Asking nothing but an audience in brief pedestrian glory.