In your sleep without end, you're just a bit player in the use of moss and grass, roots passing through your skull on the way to light and glory. I'm more attuned to the dead squirrel I buried in the garden. His decay grows my tomatoes. His bones are the shoulders on which every pumpkin heaves. Flowers come through you singing but no one hears the song. Whatever I pick, place on the table, is a rodent's epiphany, the fine tuning of a short life of hunger and fear. I'm sorry that it all can't fall into place the way a sermon would have it. It's not the grit of ancestors that grows us but the nasty side effects of sharing this world with others. Sure, I bring you flowers from my garden. But who plucks the heresy of your blooms?
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