The land grows
with its roots in our souls.
We are full of sunflowers, thistles
and pigweed. I am hard-headed
as the winter wheat, you are soft
at the heart like an artichoke. We are
black as the loam
with the earth bleeding
out of our pores.
We are bathed in sweat
and cricket spit. We are full
of itch, rocks and mourning doves, we are
thunder and lightning
Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books®