I often take my chances with the nettles on my calves

and the stings on my arms—small, often

painful reminders that necessary moving through even

beautiful spaces is memorably protected

by both nature and what cannot be defined.

I find little comfort as I disturb the silence of misty mornings

or the light sounds of the shedding dusk,

never comfortable as I find life in front of me,

its energies toward living another day, and mine

to deliver freedom from decline, hunger, and obscurity—

the price set by the unflavored ingredient of harvest,

together, part of the bouquet of production for a tea to be born.