Defender of the faith in me.
ready, instant in season, out of season -- if

as a farmer kid,
you can make any sense of that. You know,
things grow slow
and ripen too fast to ship to town,

so we wait, having sampled the green stawberry,

we learned that one of patience's first works,
after every winter in life,
is bright, wait for it, solid red strawberries.
Maybe one itty bitty mouse bite,
or wren peck, but that's okeh.

So sweet.
So I wait, defending my faith that life has a very
different way of telling time,

and uses tiny unseeable things to send instructions
when conditions are predictable
for survival of the leaven,

scattered to the heavens, when our puff ***** pop,

with help from wild little boys in my backyard,

which has never had a fence.

The only seminal content that ever arises:
is from existence itself.

All else is borrowed thought.

Trust me,
the sky will not be the same tomorrow.

Originality is one-off.