----with crooked, meandering, furrows, dusty trenches thirsting
like finches freshly hatched, featherless, whose radish-resembling heads
----instinctively anticipate what host a mother’s beak may bring,
breadcrumbs, rose-buds, myrtle-sprigs, some writhing, shriveling, worm,
----want and provision erecting young necks from the nest,
its wattle fence their first exposure to faith, a forum for voicing
----psalms and complaints to the descending parent.
Like these chicks, my soil accepts whatever is planted, uncomprehended,
----blossoming sprouts up toward the sun while imaginative rains
baptize root-balls to tunnel down deep, universally feeding
----the sapling green limbs and heart-piercing thorns of figs and weeds
entangling this plot. Only the Gardener’s keen shears can cultivate
----this fated harvest- prudence blooming its womb with a promise.
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