The Hand that Tills

A flag of blouse rises above
The muddy river with aerobatic grace;
Back and forth like a hummingbird
Finger bones and wrist twist
Brush lavender, blush
Upon her ample breast
In the time it takes a small yellow butterfly
To land, disappear, a blur

In her ruby throated silence
She drops seeds between her toes
Settles earthen caves from which they will flower
One hand tills, one grips
The limestone wall
Salted with daisies and hyacinth,
Azalea clusters pulse in the wind
Touch blue tips of nameless flowers

It is the eternal cycle of care
In which she is employed

Most do not bother to learn names
Prepare our beds, as if
We were the royal heir
The hand that tills, plants without reservation
Promise of all tomorrows
Her wrists unpack the soil
Precise, machine-like
Years of decay and treasure

Brief flicker, fly away
Wonder finds the migration of souls
Hidden shadows, evening primrose
We never learned the names, or
Recognized the lineage, soil seed soil
The fog recedes and
Another hand tills

August 2014 | Published September 7, 2014