we meet them as hunters holding emeralds and limes; they come on as olives, as myrtles and pines; we name Kelly and Harlequin, hang mosses with jade; from Irel_and army to celadon sea, so onwords is our forest made. in the name of Thomas Rhymer, in the name of La Maga, in the names of Whim the Weedwise and Cinderman Chaga, in the name of all herbwives we covertly call, our lingua vert[ically] engaged to enthrall. we link letters, we give words to whispers all our silent senses heard; we make a human language of the breath they’ve made b[irth]right, as they grow to green life from the golden touch of sunlight.
this is our repayment in reflection, to contribute to the connection. from sun to stem to sentence one thread is spun unbroken, and so it is that with green tongues only truth is spoken—for when facts are made impartial and reific, the standard is s[t]olid as stone, but when acts relate from spacious to specific, the verdant verity is [l]overgrown.
long were these words neglected, unheeded, unallowed to matter or even to mean, but cons[cious]equences have come connected, and we admit: red grows from green. never has a bloom been born without some vine, some leaf, some thorn, and climbing up their winding way, stems sing to sight. this is their say:
take our tastes upon your tongues, pull our pres[c]en[t]ce in your lungs,
give your g[r]aze to garden, grove, and grass; we’ll teach you our viriditas.