On Native Soil

 

 

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.