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

making love.

Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books®