Is that where you stood
that morning when the sheath’d, embarrassed moon
hid herself too soon behind earth’s broad shoulder?
Inured to tenderness but not without skiff and shuffle
you never made it your way to sing
past noon when the capricious cool lay waiting
for her summons from the heat of shimmering day.
Why must the geese shout so loud,
parading their brash story, torn through the ashen sky?
Their mockery only makes you braver
to twist your weary neck from shifting dirt;
the clumping, clodden landscape,
your only refuge.
You turn for home and take your place
among the pawns of potential.
Eat enough to remind yourself
of Eden’s meta-narrative, your textbook
with pages missing, the ones you planted.
Only here do you hear,
the song of dust, the foreplay of longitudinal seed-smithing.
Despite your doubt, here it makes sense.
Here it doubles up to surrender
the deep bellies of earth.