My superstitions are pH balanced,
like the apple pickers
and the gardeners with their
fingers entwined in the language
of the landscape, organic and fresh.

But the label says it's going
to happen. Dark, rich life will fall
from the roots of the tree that’s been cajoled
from its nest and perlite, a fool’s gold, will sprinkle
into worshipping hands.

We will stand on that soil and call it a revolution
asking for wonder drugs, stirring them into a cup of good day Earth.
Starving in sleep I will drink from that brew and
my eyes will open to the naked alarm clock.

Coming in from the cold, our frosted breaths will remind us that
at any breeze we could be blown from this rock.