of the poor woodcutter hide

bundles in the elms' hollows.

White rosebush, red rosebush.

Shiny adze, spade, dug out

gold sepals but no blossoms.

of the poor cobbler quiet

against the workshop tongues,

kobolds at the milk. Stitch, stitch.

of the poor miller if you ask

kindly. Sublimes to gravid air.

Waking up slowly. Where

do I end and my apron begin?

Where are my sisters? We multiply

like mice, like grains of barley.

Who will sort us out? As a favor,

the ants.