I am the bad seed who chose where to sprout,
alongside these meadows. I moved again
despite your need for me. When I came out
West without one look toward where I had been

it was because the things that choked me—worse
than thistles or stones, all the ordnance thrown,
your savage son waging unholy wars
in the memory of Cain. But here I own

my square, honest piece of the well-worn dream
one half I’ll mow and leave the rest to woods
enough room to take root by friends who seem
quite happy I am close. Who thought I could

grow strong beside these windswept stalks of grain?
Where bravery yields a remedy for pain.

– D.E. Kern