labor, groan, birth


to my knowledge i have never

heard (though i do not speak the

language) the woodpecker or the beaver

apologize to the tree, nor the

bovine to the grass, the bear to the fish, nor the

mosquito to me. Perhaps underflesh these souls speak

in gratitude; in tiny, delicate prayers to the

offering sky or moon (as at supper i sometimes whisper

faintly — gently, mouth quavering as just before

a child’s good honest cry — my thanks to Him). If

this were so, i would not,

could not know, but to the naked eye there seems only

usury, advantage, consumption,

blood —

Strange then that i, somehow,

find the nerve, the audacity, the arrogance to

apologize to you, my love — the greenest waving

meadow, noblest catch of the river rapid,

loftiest leafiest oak of the forest.


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