I’ve been stalking my own soul,
drawing again and again out of this muddy puddle
that is my own private soul swamp.
You're squeezing my shoulder a little too tightly,
and I don’t say a word whilst being pushed to prayer.
The terrace door wide open, a wild garden grimacing behind.
It takes an uncomfortably wide step for us to get out.
Outside, awaiting us is the red amaranth high like a Gothic cathedral,
swaying next to the winter-hardy spinach and wild carrots
freckled in white, yellow, and orange. A scenery reminiscent
of flickering light through church windows.
A few steps further, we find old zucchini sorts
with skin as hard as a pumpkin's,
ancient seeds with old names, lost to us for centuries.
Beets and roots and pictures of ancestors collected—
what could we ask? What would they tell?
My hand is touching yours, on my shoulder still,
your grip finally loosened, and I think to myself
that I’ll consider your offer.
A story you told, a heartfelt wish:
one third for Mother Nature, one third for the thieves,
and one third will be for us.