I found this pictureof myself when Iwas less than a year old-September 1981 – in my mother’s arms, wading near a beach on the American side of the St. Lawrence River.She held me by my pits with a smile good enough to getmy father’s attention.
memory
We Need the Soil
because the roots are a gorgeouscatastrophe of gargling raindrops those empty diamond shaped facescontaining the dreams of elderberries because she fills earth’s basket with the black resinous warmth of grandmother’s hands breaking the ruby white stalksof rhubarb and celery, reenacting each contagious morningthe cherished dew of midnight’s tears as the wild and mischievousrhythms of eternity nears