Take care, then,
For aren’t you
typically
more than
a little
nagged by the
fire drive

To devour it all
Before you know
which fruit is borne
Of this
p-art-i-cul-ar
tree?

Do devoir,
And so too
They’ll do.

Like you,
They need only
time:
the soil of
trust.

Turn it over softly,
with the sweet
echoing memory
of yesterday’s
Saturnalia.

The next trudge,
may startle
mid-winter’s
precarious root
Unless you shhshh
quietly
the voice
of imprudence.