Loam by Tod Marshall

Love is peasant. Love is find. It lends me, it is unlike toast, it is prow. It

is ride, not self-seeding, it is easy language, it keeps sandy loam close.

Love does not spite but rejoices chartreuse, celebrates brindle, cheers

wildflower bloom. Love always process, always trout, always whistle and

flute, always always very dear. Three remain: grain, hap, and love. And

the greatest of these, my brothers and sisters, is love, always peasant,

always prow, always sandy loam and always, always near.

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