I carry in my head my mother’s soil:
A cup of her mind. We share the same loam,
Dark and rich like an evening’s coffee grounds.
I furrow the dirt: just as I comb my hair,
Brown as hers once was, I rake thoughts over,
Turning the old ground, letting earth taste air.
A drizzle of water, or wine; a sacrifice
Of spirits to the soil, so in that loam
A thought may germinate, a grain might grow.
I tend this modest garden, tenderly:
Reading to the roses, and the lilies,
Tales of those who wait beyond the fence;
And imagine, an intruder on my lands
Might one day take his ripe, firm gun and plant
An iron seed into my dreaming earth.