The first time I brush against the new leaves, though, the earthy aroma swirling around my limbic system, Frost will no longer do.
William Blake gets close, Galway Kinnell closer still, but the words only get in the way, and what I know, or think I know, float like motes in a ray of sun, perceptible, for the moment, before sliding into the darkness that defines the edge of the light.
Tomato, just recently sprouted, sitting in the basement....
