Letter from Mother…
Insinuate with soft, well, chosen strides.
Leave an open arm’s path…ahead and behind.
A venue for others to confide.
Not all season’s covet rebirth.
Ultimately, no man-made earth.
Contrite, as it appears.
Extinction grows near.
Beware an over harvest…coupled with a weighty appetite.
In every budding sapling, a saint, a sinner.
Nil is the return…on a landscape that cultivates thinner.
The shadow’s tire on decayed cornstalks.
In a layperson’s terms,
it is less in the way…
more in why…