It's the birds in the air -
how fair is it that they should fly care-free
only to land on power lines that help your faraway words get said to me?
Replayed through my head in dreams where I'm climbing up some impossibly tall tree to grab at fruit that withered weeks ago.
Bitter flesh tastes best when blended with the rest of the roots.
I can't keep track of which of these fields actually yielded vegetables.

Snipped at the base,
soaked in water,
sprinkled with lemon juice to spruce up the taste.
I just need a minute.
Please, just give me a moment to clean up the place.