Today: salad, fried sausage and pepper.
My knife rings the bell of pepper;
Little sages of thyme.
Each seed is a hedge for the future,
A little flag for survival;
It would make me weary to count them.
This plant doesn’t try once or twice
Or even a hundred times.
It puts a thousand or more attempts to the attentions of it’s work.
Not just one year, every year.
My five tries at romance are twigs.
My ten minute meditation is a puddle.
My thirty-three event posters a wisp.
Fruit bears from a thousand seeds.
Start after lunch?