The Greenhouse Ideal

 It is a green house

that nests the sapling until it branches out,

teaching the small roots how to crawl

across the airy viscerals of its own yard.

It is always a mother

who trickles through you like morning sun,

a cat's rough kiss, the comfort of mashed potato

warm against the rolling tongue.

Yet her ultraviolet dignity, her heavy carbohydrates,

draw a strict radius around your plate:

Eat the fermented rice our forefathers loved,she says,

and write for those who share it.

Do not pine

for continental delicacies, for imported oils,

and the rich, ungrounded starches of the wider world.

She will shelter you through every season

until the morning you are invited to the feast abroad.

Then she locks the garden gate against your coat,

refusing the fruit that has tasted other soil, and says –

Write for the low-key, or learn the quiet cost:

the prize, the fame, the wide and breathable air

are only for those who never outgrew the pot.

11 October, 2026