A low cloud of grackles
a ruin of laundry
horses stand still in the field.
I plant seeds like ash
dark beds full
of the roots of weeds.
furrows my fingers pulled
the grass already growing around me
The giant willow
in the last shudder of wind.
There is a bird box without swallows
a bed without peas
a small tree thinking about its buds.
knowing it will soon die back again
so afraid of winter
it has no courage to bloom
to carry the weight of itself through that lolling
you innocent and penetrating
grower between split and crack
building a temple of cells
grains like trust settle into your toe roots
telling them - this is the right way to grow -
* * * * *