A lonely shadow casts upon the green carpet,
Blossoming from nothing but a blowing seed–
vegetative propagation.
Sticks shoot through the bright green straw,
The womb of Mother Earth, doors facing East and West.

Buckets of life sit atop the straw blanket,
Blossoming with new life.
Filling, fueling, feeding–
Over and over and over.
And when we die, we become the food of the blossoming leaves,
And the bright green sheet that covers the Earth’s floor.

Yet nobody stops to appreciate
The beauty of the blossoms.

There sits a lonely table,
On the never ending sheet
Of green.