to rise again, turning
its soil, fertile and rich, the compost and pith of
ripened, swallowed skins, fruity flesh,
sweet indulgences gorged upon.
Year after year, tooth marked stones and pits
thrown over her shoulder just to see what comes up,
for luck, like salt.
Lucky for her,
feeling expectant inside her many wombs, Earth
is in a giving mood.
Expectant where thick blood tracks have lain down,
heart pulsating, inner knowing, new life waiting in its
crimson rivers and streams.
All the shining truths, the shriveled essences—
what had been unloved or shunned,
each and every one welcomed now,
the poor, the beleaguered, the scared, coming home,
coalescing all, finding common ground.
© 2013 S. Wolfington