My Dear Soil-womb,
Matriarch of all cultivation,
carbon cocoons,
metamorphosing into cherry blossoms,
casting crowns of canopies upon queen trees
I am a boy of sprouts, and if I must
as a peasant of duty
excavate the archives
rummaging through the forest library shelves
I bow down before Nature in her nakedness
the reverence of my roots draws power
from the well of her wisdom and truth
now I must go back, em-branched by Trees
and embroider my the petal fabrics
I shall pitch my canvas in these enclaves
and let the worms whisper all the soil's secrets
