Writing. Redistillation of the ideas and thoughts of those before them,

I drink hungrily from the garden hose, as the crooked branches in me grow on those tones.

Sunshine blindsspot, reaffirm positive growth in hard wooden fibers sheets, leaves in rain. 

My own fruit taking on the qualities of the blend of ingredients imposed into the soil, the flask, my future and my past.

Harvest brings the months together. Mashed in pulp, yeast, sugar is better. 

Not a fire of forge but copper tub and wire hammer out in thumper pure essence, 

cooled vapor, electric ambrosia, moonshine harlequin amogst a gathered masses. 

Limestone water and appalachain oak temper tongues, reviled now dignifed. 

Tumbled into a glass and passed to an out streched hand, a cocked ear.

The cycle continues again to another peer.