A poem by Mary Oliver (1992). Please make of it what you will. And please, for World's Fair regulars, connect it to prior posts as you will:
Rice [1992]
It grew in the black mud.
It grew under the tiger's orange paws.
Its stems thinner than candles, and as straight.
Its leaves like feathers of egrets, but green.
Its grains cresting, wanting to burst.
Oh, blood of the tiger.
I don't want you just to sit down at the table.
I don't want you just to eat, and be content.
I want you to walk out into the fields
where the water is shining, and the rice has risen.
I want you to stand there, far from the white tablecloth.
I want you to fill your hands with mud, like a blessing.
With thanks to WG for sending.
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