Courgettes fold into themselves;
a dusting turns their leaves
to paper hands that crack and spread,
still sheltering the green boas
that bloom beneath them.
A feral cat stalks among calendula,
turnips cling to a string of root.
Carrots hold fast, store a last
sweetness. Stones divide
one field from another,
reveal a holy place:
a cave in rock
where earth’s honey trickles in,
pure water.
Here the women come at dawn,
make seven circles, seven rounds,
drop pebbles by the well
to mark the first—
wet sounds as their feet
turn with the earth.
Prayers are driven underground,
feet sealing desire,
to surface later
as a good strong foal,
a lover, or a child.
Sunflowers turn—
smoky faces lost, toothless,
birds eating their eyes:
seeds will fall,
burst
in a warmer time.
Published in the Literary Review of Canada, December 2010 issue