There must be hundreds

of Latin derivatives for it,

and we too must have something similar

when getting back to our roots,

easing up through the pelvis of laughter’s sinew and bones,

white here, a froth thin as nail parings, batches

of the singular shooting presently green from one crypt just

to touch sun.

Yes,

from a tangle of separations, we also

congeal lucent as wind, a synthesis,

seed-tossed in a myriad of waves

brought reborn toward

sky-blue oxygen, the Innisfree Isle delved

from cycles of mulch.