In spring, how desperate the first sprouts reach for water, mineral,
the first tendrils and roots greediest of all.
My infant takes his first breath, then hungers for more milk, more air.
And then the pain of taking away is never gone.
The hungry stand in shadows awaiting the end of any banquet.
Without end there is the want of something that can never be.
The pain of such desire is more desire.
Some take from all the others.
They are still earth creatures,
the hungry child
taken from the table,
the breast.
Even earth’s great and fertile fields
flower, then let go of the seed.
All have forgotten what hides in the shadows
where they once did.
But the greediest of all
envy the immortals
who return the envy, as they long for the body.
All the earth senses they desire
the taste of sweet milk, fresh fruit.
But gravity has its own need
to call us into the ground.
How I wish words could return to the mouth
or music to the flute, or breath,
as it was in the beginning,
remembering the nourishment that began this precious world,
remembering that even when the tide went out
the waves still came toward us, carrying some generous yield.
Something yet holds purchase, holds sway
in a world filled with green trust, even the blade
of grass recalls how
to grow back its original blade.
But I don’t know what tide is arriving
from the greed for American soil
just like the search once for mineral,
now the search between rock, flint,
shale.