I give you now my life's work.
The labors of my hands.
My magnum opus, all my hopes
Contained in one tiny, helpless poem.
For, just as Jesus, before the five thousand
Separated each loaf into hundreds
Yet they all remained whole, and fulfilling,
So too do I separate my own spark of life
And distill it equally
Into all my works.
Do with them what you will.
Tear them, crush them, eat them up.
It makes no difference, for there are always
But, just remember
That each one was still made
With wheat that first sprouted
From tiny, microscopic grains