In the spring, planting
commences, the roots of
verbs and gerunds
are persuaded to cloak
themselves in new
soils and stretch
into blank territory
without the sun’s
compass; the weeds
that hold as fast as skin
distracting the soft and
hairless on their route;
to thicken and thickening,
rinds and lemons,
the oranges trees
souring at the twigs
without ever flowering:
it is a grievous time for
an old woman and her
obsessions. Some are
born of salt and storms;
others of pressure
and loss beneath
the earth’s crust; most
precious are those guarded
by barnacles adhering to
piers of driftwood. She
loves the garden, the ocean,
the shore, and its harvest
of voices from the grimmest
of wombs; then onto
the press of rice, cotton,
satin pages, where words
slow and become surrounded
by rivalries and phyla
they are soon hoarded into.

– Jane Rosenberg LaForge