The pod protects its seed, the geode gems, the egg, yolk‒
lying in tusks of grass, safe from hands that pluck to sow
and sell to eat. An egg shhs,
walks on tip-toe, hides white on white and when
abused, hard-soft according to time.
The stone rolls in half, the Siamese earth-twin operated
on, no longer conglomerate but related. The ghost-rice
grain, oblong and strange,
keeps shying from its price.