I have come to the end of the first part of my work
and hope the spirits that assigned it to me
will not be displeased with what they perceive,
that they shall esteem sufficiently pondered the words
with which I have broached the account they required.
It is not every day one takes one’s leave of the city, retires
to the country, and seeks there a new sense of permanence,
of pertinence and belonging in the wake of defeat.
Nor is it in every season of life that one reaps
the slow-ripening fruits of such an occurrence,
observes sap resurge after a radical pruning,
novel gems burgeon, and one’s identity assume,
like a freshly-lopped tree, stark, defining contours.
I therefore thank any human being on the planet
who deems mine not to have been a mere rant or rattle,
and pour libations to Feronia, to her time-proven cures.