3 March 2021

I am making sense

From scratch

In a farm lab.

Hearing bread bake

Tasting touch

Brewing earth that sings.

 

Sweaty back tingling

I till the fields

Keeping my eyes open

For hopeful buds.

 

This farm girl thought

That sense was a weed

Needing to be burnt out

At the root. I was wrong.

 

There was a fire here

Severing stalk from stem

Shorting body from brain.

This scrubland of senses

Has been tended bare.

All I have left are a few

Freeze-dried seeds in my hands.