Fields, with their endless opportunity,
sunlight, with its stinging rays,
and my hands,
my own two hands, they
that grip and pull both fruit and vine.
One full basket can be sold,
or kept and eaten,
or left to rot.
What are human matters to a plant?
Lush gardens fling themselves
toward sunlight, with its life,
without my hands.
Nature has no need of human matters,
but we are in Hers.
I eat my fruit in spite of
Ripe, full of potential,
guided by those that came before,
they sit in their basket, indifferent to me.
I am the one
that names them.