Attentive to the dawning light, a poem has much in common with a plant: the crown delivers photosynthate through the phloem to earthbound roots—as thoughts are channeled down to partner up with images (concrete ones are preferred) from native stock; from roots the living water is conveyed to meet essential needs of swelling leaves and shoots by means of bundled vessels in the xylem— as feelings rise inside what's said and heard. Poetic diction is a separate phylum within the kingdom of the spoken word (or written word, as things have come to pass, though one might say the differences are nil), just as the breezes sighing through the grass in summer aren't the same as winds that chill one's bones in wintertime. But what has air to do with plants and poems? Everything! It is the medium the two must share and share alike, beyond all arguing about apportionment of CO2 and oxygen. A word cannot resound unless there's air for it to travel through, that fluid fertile bed of common ground where life is stirred. (And what is God if not the faithful curator of quickened form, the sempiternal all-forgiving shot of usquaebach that keeps a body warm in any weather?) Given grace and time, this moving-partless movement will empower the analogues of umbel, spike and cyme: They thrive and, trophotropic, come to flower. C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India. His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.