the tired peasant mother of a mother
calloused hands with grooves and furrows
small stepping feet float her to the field in adagio beat
with the surrounding sounds of natures sweet ring
her arms and aching back carry the acquired anamnesis of
two generations trapped in toiled labor
ostinato hoe turning earth and birthing it again
a ritual a funeral for rotted leaves and packed dirt
surfacing soft soil for the seasonal scatter
blessing burnt black sod with the sheen of the sea
finality fills her tired peasant eyes as the last seeds are sown
she will not collect the coming crop of Cancer
and weather the wintery wind's wicked blows
she gracefully floats to the rhythm of the coda
burial in the fall with the fallen leaves
the fuel for a future funeral of minerals and weeds
a wry smile unwilting across her wrinkled face
laid in the loam of an unknown reap
waking
my fertile head in your lap
soft sounds of sinatra surfing your sighs while
stacatto fingers linger and harrow my scalp
sifting up the syllables that sprout and swell
into impending verses and idolatry
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