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 thatβs been cajoled from its nest and perlite, a foolβs 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.