Alas, I am derivative stuff –
clever, perhaps, and wily,
but tethered to vegetable matter
for everything that matters:
earth, water, wind, fire. The
sun-drinkers – those green-spirited
shamans who spin light into food
like water into wine (or straw
into gold) – they deliver the goods,
all the elements and accoutrements
of my person, and all for the low,
low price of a few wasted breaths.
It's literally the least I can do, a nod
in the direction of mutual benefit.
But we all know what's going on
here. We all know who's getting the
better deal. I get off thinking I'm
scot-free; they imbibe unmitigated,
unmediated light, world without end.