An honest mound of oat flour broods in a jar
shaped like a dune in Nehalem before the wind hits
and all of her sisters are scalped as a sacrifice
to the wayward thing, the shape shifter that leaves us all
unable to cling to anything—but especially words.
Today the earth is my mother and it is not a lie
or a ploy for attention, it is an honest thing, a stray root
I find as I slide my hand beneath her porous skin
and ask for help, or just to feel her warm soil.
Cacti are budding their purple crowns
guarded children who release their water
in the form of a gift.
Today the earth is my mother and it is not a lie
from her breast I have found oats and beets, mustard on rye
I have plucked dandelion and sucked from the stem its bitter milk
as if to learn something about the color yellow, or trusting weeds,
and once, in a pasture of wheat,
I laid my back upon your belly for half a day
and cupped a moth in my hands.
Today the earth is my mother and I kiss the bark
of every tree I’ve escaped a house to find home in—
you know, these days, I run my thumb over your stones
who, jagged and heavy,
leave an imprint in my palm
a reminder of passing things, even I
with only an offering of breath
will sprawl beneath your imagination
in a quiet bath of stars
each one, a tenseless death, brilliant
and still—
I study them backwards
like a butterfly.