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 !