Gather

Listen:

We flourish at all latitudes

He was born in the season of sagebrush,

And you can see it in the brush and burr

of his windswept jaw, guarding a smile

grinning so wide, and so rare, that it bedights

the scrublands way up Northwest of anywhere.

He is anchored deep in the scant soil, and

will wait long for the coming rain.

She was born in the season of burn hazel,

and you can feel it in the itch, and drag

of her nettles. Small and ubiquitous,

she adorns the fields and prairies with

a poison so benign, and so benevolent,

that the hares and rodents take a wider

path of affectionate avoidance.

I was born in the season on the Yew Tree,

and you can hear it in the bend, and break

of these boughs and wonder at the strength

of the storm.  There is a redolence

here, hiding a fruit not fit for eating. Hiding a seed

so baneful, and so pernicious, I am grown

at a distance from water.

We three stand at Earth’s frothing fount, dipping

into its mosses and grasses, breathing in the

pollen laden air, dragging it inside of our lungs

to blend into our blood, and flesh,

and thoughts so deep, and so thorough

that we turn and sew our seeds again.