Since she was conceived on a homestead,
she wanted to speak cow,
particularly when they lay
in daylight on the *****
beyond the oil well.
At that point she wanted to talk wild rose,
the one that developed beneath the horse shelter,
it appeared to address her
of everything she couldn't yet have
or know, yet she proved unable
to address it, even of it, for a considerable length of years.
At that point she want to speak plantation
where pears turned the ground gold,
where yellow coats swarmed,
where she couldn't go alone.
A long time later, markets were more secure,
she overlooked this one.
Others she always remember—the lake
with its trim edge of *******, the foot
prints of cows and steeds along the edge
making a kind of writing.
The roughage that clung to her dad
and siblings, following into their sweat
as they worked in August
to bring it into the horse shelter,
where notes of it hung
in that house of God.
Also, the magic her mom worked
with peaches, tomatoes, green beans,
how her little hands turned them
always delightful—sparkling in the basement,
glowing on the dinner table
Listen, the world stated,
Listen !
