the tired peasant mother of a mother
calloused hands with grooves and furrows
small stepping feet float her into the field
her arms and aching back carry the anamnesis of
two generations toiled in labor
hoe turning earth and birthing it again
a ritual a funeral for weeds and mined minerals
surfacing soft soil for the seasonal scatter
and blessing burnt black sod with the sheen of the sea
a feeling of finality fills her tired peasant eyes
as the last of the seeds are sown
unwilling to collect the coming crop of Cancer
and weather the wintery wind's wicked blows
she floats with sure-footed rhythm to 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
finessed fingers harrowing my scalp
sifting up the words that swell
into impending verses and idolatry
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