Spores that flower along the grassy edge: bread-like and brown, fruit of the lightning. I don't talk to God much these days except through words scratched on the sill. Of questions, of rants, and bottled pleas: more than enough to fill empires of pages. You think I play in the dirt when I keep to my silent labors —more than enough to fill empires of pages; of questions, of rants, and bottled pleas. Except through words scratched on the sill, I don't talk to God much these days. Bread-like and brown, fruit of the lightning: spores that flower along the grassy edge.