Little green thing, you, the lines on your palm running as roots– you understand what it means to be part of the earth, in all its playful, steady wonder. Tiller of gardens, warden of weeds; you decide what will wonders spring will make and what shall be left to the teeth of slavering frost. do not forget to find a place for the bitter amongst the sweet; the thorn has as much right to the thistle as the bloom.


















