Growth set itself forward in the aperture of spring                                                            born of the toiled fields                                                                                                           sweat salted land                                                                                                                 between fingers submerged                                                                                                 caught in the interstice of skin and nails

An odor of thyme amid the wind                                                                                      carried with it the temerity                                                                                                      that parried against the flight of insects,                                                                                  as a transient respite                                                                                                              from the essential labor of being.

Born nude                                                                                                                                      of vagrant roots                                                                                                                         lifted to the sun                                                                                                                            by a travail of the hands                                                                                                 abandoned to the horizon,                                                                                                         to the melancholy of the sea