Innocence BY LINDA HOGAN There is nothing more innocent than the still-unformed creature I find beneath soil, neither of us knowing what it will become in the abundance of the planet. It makes a living only by remaining still in its niche. One day it may struggle out of its tender pearl of blind skin with a wing or with vision leaving behind the transparent. I cover it again, keep laboring, hands in earth, myself a singular body. Watching things grow, wondering how a cut blade of grass knows how to turn sharp again at the end. This same growing must be myself, not aware yet of what I will become in my own fullness inside this simple flesh.