The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

Why are we here, you ask as they pour the Pinot Noir and plate the duck
To which I respond by closely examining the steaming Brussels sprouts
Sparkling with bacon fat, finally raising my glass and eyes to yours:
“To the whisper of running streams, and winter lightning. The wild thyme unseen
And the wild strawberry, the laughter in the garden, and echoed ecstasy.”