Two octaves above merrily merrily
I go where ferns sing: sing of green
sing of the small vole living close
and brown.  He listens, hums along
and in my dream catches a beat.

A walking, talking dream spanning
300 million turns of earth, sweet
and wet, held close by the burning
sphere devouring me, vole, fern
and quite possibly the high E sung

in praise of this hungriest of gods
responsible also for the daily bread
she feeds us and we in turn feed him
golden and delicious.  A Vivaldi
of one note, this fern - and green.