L is for Longing

cups are filled the land is tilled and water is held in a sort of confinement which risks release. upon the glade, some summer shade as trees push through the soil and into the sky, a slow movement which cannot be watched and would be mistaken for emptiness if indeed observable, making food from the air and presenting that result as worthy of representation, an artist's creation whose moments are resolved by looking, even as numbers are recited backwards: until there are so many parts that they are infinite and indistinguishable.
Like leaves.