Nature seemed absent from his eleven years:
prone to boredom, sweating inherent chutzpah,
he guessed the weakness of a home library
never failing to impress commoners and
scholars alike. Was him just the same, was he
no miracle? By all means. & quite a lack
of essence, all around him.
So it came, six summers later, a pursuit
of vision, long before knowing it meant breach,
long before knowing there are no seasons, no
homestead (the sudden glimpse of a norse cottage,
sole ectype he’ll meet), nor a day of harvest,
only of surrender; that the best late bloom
is the one which never comes.