With displeasure comes the land to till.
And out from peaceful earth, a crop you handle
Shall drop from grips to worth.
And for forgotten seeds will find no fruits, perhaps
Though dignified and true.
For only passion rakes the soil
And through it, heaven’s harvest.

So tie no interest, begging still;
And for no guide to wrangle
Are angels’ will to dropping halos,
Becoming persons to gamble
On saving graces;
For mothers who bare the womb not now forsaken.
‘Twill chime for goodness, gracious.

And with unknowing love
Do sin again, perhaps.
Yet still to learn our meaning
Of rapt incurrences.

For good or evil?
No, best to our poor failings.

And with circumferences do cradle onward
Carrying a garden’s girth.
But patched with god’s indifference,
Yet his infinite curiosity
In mistook creations.
‘Cause as temptation whittles forth to send a telegram,
A recipient will go forward knowing more
To lessen their own troubled morning.

And so to stamp envelopes,
Souls do cross
To farm together with no bulbs of flowers.
Though to grow inside a shadow will find its lightness,
And be meals for something
If not but for a token to someone’s greatness.

All together, it is a whistle blown for someone close.
Or a break to highways to visit strangers-
‘Tis better than a lonesome anger, yes.
And with a venting comes a through-forest’s breath
To nurture what becomes it:

A rising life from its language death.