Another layer incites no great stir,
nor would the amalgamation of this mound or that;
stars are birthed from scraps congealed in space,
so I suppose this biscuit's ignition gives cause to celebrate:
soft crumbs, then paste, and now the oddly glowing mark
of God's hand on my desk rend an anthem from lungs.
We sing for greening sticks, Bards wax
epiphanic because freshening spring never fails to vitalize,
yet stomachs flip at the sights and smell of this small life,
and we sic machines to thwart its wet development.
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