Planter

I see her descending a cut block,

a broken sky upon her back

her face radiant,

throwing her body

into every single stroke

of her work shined shovel

her hair bounces with

each downward step

and for all that effort

she is not convinced.

No high-baller here

neither the evenings

nor the tenting,

neither the fire

nor the consolation

can fill her heart.

It hangs,

calling back from a room

in her future

where an open page

lamp lit

on an old-oak desk

draws black blood

from her fingertips

siphoning her life

into a story.