In some places,

silt over loam

the death of a field

and ferns covered in dulled-silver dust:

ghosts caught between the green world and the dead.

 

 

In other places,

the land stripped to bedrock

barely a place for root to take hold

soil slipped away

and our suppers with it.

 

In these places where weather and water upend

our hungry counting of squash in the field

ripe tomatoes

a pumpkin’s blooming

 

Our voices, too, ebb and flow

no longer innocent

and not today tender.

 

Published in The Kerf 2015