Filled with those eager for a picnic...
The flesh of the illusion...
And the potter's clay
They make the sunshine real...
A warmth only truly known by intellect...
The soft touch of a wife's hand...
It brings a sweet smile to her lover...
Her husband approves...
As he is the base element...
A sheet between their skin and the Earth...
Enough food for everyone...
Sport for the child...
And no defined game...
With no shoelaces or belts for the prisoner...
He eats from an empty bag...
Eventually finding food...
Sweeter than the soil of figs...
Nourished with answers...
An oracle in the senses...
All is told...
The tongue never moves...
Except for fermented grapes...
Timely season...
Perfect region...
Stainless cuts of fresh cheese...
Nibbling gently under trees of stillness...
Everything became new...
So says the shape-shifting ancestor...
Born from the womb of tree bark...
doM
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