Do I know the names of the plants that spring up voluntarily around the house, each in tune with the season? Have I noticed them all? Am I aware of their culinary and medicinal uses? Do I see how they attract and benefit the wealth of other beings that live here and move among them? And do I appreciate these fellow mortals? Or do I only pull weeds, avoid mushrooms, kill ants, and live in a state of dominant, suicidal ignorance? This is such a small plot of earth, a few paces deep, a few paces wide — am I a stranger here, an intruder? Or do I live on the most intimate, harmonious terms?
[ 741 ]
Categories: Everything and Nothing, New Poems & Pieces
William Michaelian 