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Personal Note:

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Poem

This patch of dirt, this womb of earth, organic 
black and aromatic with compost and 
coffee grounds, receives my 
spade, but soon my hands 
are digging there, putting roots 
in place as seedlings, kelly green and 
delicate as sparrow wings, fill the garden bed.

Relentless sun 
draws sweat like rivulets 
on walls in a leaky house, salting 
my eyes and a skyward supplication:
Dear God dismiss both drought and deluge;
create instead a harvest bursting like the heirloom,
deep red and overdue for picking.

On the morrow, with work behind me for a day, I drive 
to town and join my neighbors in communal song:  we praise 
the One who watches over home and field and commands 
his son to rise along with daily bread.

Heading home through glacial ghosts, on asphalt 
softened by an early summer, and though the 
wide horizon invites redemption, I’ll not 
realize what I’ve done: prayer engaging 
as an echo
     (the cry of hope in cloistered air...)
prostration pleasing to Apollo - 
and all the patriarchal gods -
praises poured upon an
ancient father, Abba,
unable to embrace a
child or climate 
refugee.

I’ll not remember my mother, how she shaped 
bone and sinew from the black dust of 
burned out stars, breathing, from 
florae exhalations, oxygen into 
lungs, benefiting when I 
grow wise enough to consider 
the lily, to celebrate her gift, now 
trampled beneath the gilded idol, how she 
suckled me with milk as rich as the soil in her veins.

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