No longer does Demeter
kiss the ground beneath my feet.
Too many years of hosting corn
had left the garden leeched.
It is useless clay beneath me;
a field of plough-cracked stone.
But once, it was a bountiful garden
sustaining my family home.
As a child, I rode the plough
my father pulled about
and dug my toes in rich dark soil
doing my best to just help out.
I spent my summers in the corn
playing at hide and seek,
listening to laughter amongst the rows
with pollen-dusted cheeks.
But now, the seasons turned
on this beloved stretch of land.
It will never again know laughter
or the touch of a ploughman’s hand.
It’s become nothing but a bridge
connecting our home and barn
one must carefully choose to cross
lest the thorns inflict them harm.
Most seasons, I spare it not a glance.
Here, the cocklebur reigns.
The ropey weeds and blackberry briars,
in concert, this ground reclaimed.
I mourn the loss of the enchanted garden
where my siblings and I came to play,
but a silver-lining, if one exist,
is how nature marked the grave.
The Morning Glory is mourning glory.
Watch how the blossomed serpent grows.
It winds and twines and kisses our eyes,
and to the sky, the Farmer’s Rose doth go.
Koyotee Laughing 