This rolled growth of sweet Mother Earth,
now between my fingers I hold
her breath, bated, much like my worth.

Barefeet and barebones, renewed dearth
of repose, sanity consoled
by role - growths of sweet Mother Earth.

I’ve worked sweat from my brow, my girth
diminished. Love sits in green bold -
her breath, baited, much like my worth.

We consume each other. Rebirth
my sunken pulse from mellowgold,
this growth of mother. Rolled sweet earth,

up in smoke around Cheshire mirth.
With numbed senses, today I’ve sold
my bated breath, much like her worth.

And so we journal language, like Firth,
while The Sativa Saint extols
this rolled growth of sweet mother earth,
her breath, bated, much like my worth.