Beneath a fog that bids a slower morning,
I stare out toward the shallow depth of field,
filled with juts of cotton tufts adorning
land assumed and never meant to yield
the fibrous plumes the soil is enriching,
entrenching all the boons the order brings.
I assume that never once the farmer stitching
seeds in soil considered all these things:
treaties left ignored since their first reading
that might forbid the planting of his means.