In the morning when the sun is high I plant

my shovel into the ground with my foot

later I’ll pull lush plums down from loving branches

but in this moment I am digging.

This is the work it takes,

mouth unhinged,

jaw unfurled like snake

palms ripped in fire

delicate stems turned towards sun

dirt-blackened hands, wiggling worms, a winged audience

and there is song in everything

so when I go to the grocery store

and the vegetables get a bath

and the soft brown eggs have no mother

and each shiny package sits, stares blankly back at me

I marvel at modern peace.

Tomatoes straight to door,

plastic-wrapped, screaming

out for warm red soil and a gentle hand

a soft bed, a murmured word

Who will kindly save their seeds

and lay them to rest?