Growth

Soft static reaches her fronds toward an insatiable earth. Growth is a capricious master. I lick the salt from the rim. I lick the luck. Ferocious, fecund februaries try desperately to mate with the various Mays and Junes in my autobiography. My book of life written in rose for an audience no one knows. Snow can not long fellowship with sun and her recalcitrant rays. On the farm in my mother’s diary, sheep raising men.