It is enough—enough today it seems—
to stand rooted among these living spires,
knowing the shy wild ginger blooms close by,
leaves unfurled in this very air to breathe.
No need to seek the beech’s shade, to scan
the forest humus for its tell-tale heart-
shaped foliage, to push the leaves apart,
and touch the pungent rhizome with my hand;
or without thought to rip it from the ground,
transplant it to a sheltered garden plot
where it might grow but never flourish—not
enough could come of this to make it sound.
Such phantom-cleaving does no harm and fills
the void when ownership would only kill.
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